On Deception Watch

by David H Spielberg

Fifteen minutes later, the fighter began a steep ascent. Having regained its lost altitude, the pilot said, “We should be arriving in about forty-five minutes. How’s your stomach doing, sir?”

  Latimer took a deep breath and managed a smile. “I think I left it in my socks a little while back. But I guess I’m okay. What happened back there?”

  “Ground-to-air missile, sir. The phosphorus flares drew the fire.”

  “Are we okay?” Latimer asked.

  “Just fine, sir. We’re still picking up some scanning radar, but nothing hostile anymore.

  “You were very professional, major. Thank you.”

  “All in a night’s work, sir.”

  Latimer marveled at the unquestioning, businesslike manner of his pilot. They were in the United States and had come under hostile fire and he just did his job. The lack of curiosity startled Latimer. He remembered from his own days in military service that there was a wide gulf between the reality and public understanding of the disciplined military mind.

  Idly looking outside the plane, Latimer saw what appeared to be small specks of light. At first he thought they were a reflection from something within the plane. He tried covering them with his hand, to interpose his hand between the glass and the object inside the plane. But the spots did not disappear. They grew brighter and larger. Finally, it was clear what the spots on the left were.

  “Major, there are two jets approaching on the right,” Latimer said.

  “Yes, sir. Those are escorts to give us a little extra protection in case we need it. They’ll be with us for the last leg here. We’ll be on the ground in about a half hour.

  The jets slowly closed on the F-22B. As they approached impossibly close, one escort fighter swung gently up and over Latimer’s jet to reappear on station on the other side.

  General Stoner must have been surprised by the missile attack, Latimer thought. This could only help his case. Did the army have missile batteries? He couldn’t remember. Strategic missiles were Air Force. But there were army tactical missile units. What had happened, he wondered, to lead to a direct attack on him? How would anyone, should the attack become known, explain or justify it?

  Latimer felt that he should be rehearsing in his head what he would say to his boyhood friend and lifelong supporter, General Warren Stoner. Instead, his eyes suddenly became very heavy and he closed them. Falling asleep, his lower jaw fell open slightly, giving the unmistakable impression of a dead man.

  66

  Warren Stoner did not much look like a general—rather more like a grocer. There was nothing about him that suggested the scope and power of his position. He was of average height, on the portly side, but with a surprising boyish face—oval and unlined. He was bald on the top of his head and the sides were trimmed close. Altogether his face was a study in contrasts. He did not wear the sporty dark glasses of the fighter pilot, but rather the heavy horn-rimmed glasses of the overworked accountant. He spoke with a casual, matter-of-fact tone devoid of drama and lofty rhetoric.

  Wasting no time, Vice President Paul Latimer presented his case to General Stoner, reviewing with him the evidence Amanda Brock and Roger Talbot passed to him before they too disappeared.

  67

  Paul Latimer sat in Warren Stoner’s windowless office deep within Building 2 and waited as Stoner’s communications team completed the link to General Morgan Slaider.

  “Morgan, this is Warren.”

  “Warren, is Paul Latimer with you?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Both men were silent for several seconds. General Slaider was first to break the silence.

  “Warren, I’d like to go visual with you, if you have no objection.”

  “No objection, Morgan.”

  Stoner pressed a button on his desk and the built-in telescreen screen on his wall pinged as the high definition display turned on and the telescreen image of Morgan Slaider appeared. Latimer moved out of range of the camera lens mounted in the corner of the room and focused on General Stoner’s desk.

  “Thank you, Warren.”

  Slaider was standing in his office leaning on the front edge of his desk, facing directly into his camera. “You are aware of the president’s order to invoke the emergency relocation option, are you not? Your computers did respond to the invoke signal?”

  “I have received the properly coded signal invoking that option.”

  “Warren, then why is the vice president with you instead of with the president? This is not one of the protocols allowed by the relocation option. Why is your the base still open?”

  “Morgan, I don’t have any hostile activity. None anywhere. Just normal Russian and Chinese patrols along their borders. Nothing to close up shop for.”

  “This is not a matter for your discretion, Warren.”

  “That’s not exactly true, Morgan. I’m at DEFCON 4. I have no hostile activity and I don’t close the base at DEFCON 4. We close at DEFCON 5, and we only go to DEFCON 5 if there is evidence of an imminent attack by external military forces. I have no such evidence.”

  “Warren, the steps to be followed in the event that the relocation option is invoked by the president are clear. Are you refusing to follow a direct order invoking the closure protocols?”

  “Direct orders from whom? Those are my goddam orders. Those are my plans and my steps. My people created those plans. Morgan, I made those plans so don’t tell me what I have to do. And the plans do not call for closing the base at DEFCON 4. That would make the president’s orders to invoke the relocation protocols, if he made them, illegal. What we seem to have here, Morgan, is an internal security problem, not a strategic military problem.”

  “Goddam it, Warren, am I going to have to debate with you about following a direct order from your president?”

  “General, that’s really why I opened this channel to you. About the president . . . ?”

  “What about the president?”

  “Well, how is he, Morgan?”

  “Have you lost your mind, Warren? Asking me about the president under these circumstances?”

  “Morgan, you’re the only one who seems to see the president—at least for the record. I imagine the doctors see him. But we don’t get to see him firsthand. I don’t mind telling you, Morgan. I need to see the president.”

  “No, General Stoner. You do not need to see the president. What you need to do is follow orders. You know what your duty is and I am ordering you to carry it out. You will follow the relocation protocols and you will begin by placing the vice president under protective custody and delivering him to the president. Do you understand this is a direct order, General Stoner?”

  “I can’t do that, General Slaider. The vice president, here, has presented me with copies of statements by every cabinet officer stating that in their opinion, the president is no longer fit to carry on the duties of his office. That makes the vice president acting president and he’s telling me to disregard your orders.”

  Both men stared into their respective camera eyes.

  “Be careful, Warren. You are playing a dangerous game now. Those papers were never delivered to the speaker of the house and have no legal weight.”

  “That’s a question for lawyers to settle, not soldiers. But I have to tell you this, Morgan—one acting president in the hand is worth two in the bush. I can see and talk to mine.”

  “Warren, don’t be a fool. You are getting in way over your head. You’re making decisions about things you know nothing about. Don’t you read your intelligence reports? This is not just a domestic security problem. This is an international conspiracy. The police and military intelligence have uncovered evidence this afternoon of a plot by OPEC and abetted for certain by Continental Oil and perhaps by other American oil companies to kill the president, to destroy the people responsible for developing the fusion technology that the president was going to share with the United Nations, and to so disrupt our political system through assassination that it would take years for the United States to
recover.

  “You’re too far from Washington, Warren. The death-dealing blow to America does not have to come only from a rocket over the North Pole. Anarchy can be let loose in our nation and it can destroy us as surely as a nuclear warhead. The president made a nationwide presentation last night, against his doctor’s advice, putting his life in grave danger, to appeal to all patriots to let the authorities reestablish order, to reject anarchy. Are you proposing to do exactly what the president just risked his life asking us to avoid? Are you going to throw this country into a constitutional crisis over who is president? What the hell are you thinking, Warren?”

  “Morgan, who is Jeremy Leach?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never heard of him.”

  “You never made phone calls or met with this person?”

  “This is beginning to sound like some kind of accusation, Warren. What are you getting at?”

  “Morgan, there is hard evidence of your association with Mr. Leach.”

  “And I tell you I don’t know the man. Is this something that Latimer dreamed up? Has he told you about his phone calls to a certain Afonso Alves, a Brazilian foreign agent trying to buy the secrets to the AJC Fusion technology? Has he explained his dealings with this man to you? Are you risking your career for a turncoat and a profiteer? You’re being used, Warren. Stop and think before it’s too late.”

  General Stoner began to tap his desk slowly. He gaze shifted from the camera lens to the image on the telescreen screen of General Slaider. Slowly he turned to Paul Latimer. Latimer returned his gaze and said nothing. General Slaider once again was speaking.

  “Warren, of course we are not parading the president all around town. The man was very close to death—is not out of it yet. And right now there is a serious cloud over the vice president. I can show you evidence myself about the vice president’s activities, believe me. This is no time for guessing about who’s in charge here. To the world it is and must be the presidentPresident Drummond. But you’re right. I’m keeping him under wraps because what people don’t see they can only guess about and guesses will not cause the same disruption that the certainty of President Drummond’s real condition would surely cause. Warren if you think there is a cloud over the president’s condition, there isn’t. His wounds are grave . . . could still be mortal. But we can’t let Latimer take over control of our country’s security. This is a man who is not to be trusted with our country’s defense secrets. And even a wounded Emerson Drummond is more of a leader than a healthy Paul Latimer.”

  Paul Latimer jumped from his chair and moved directly into the viewing area in front of General Stoner’s desk. Looking directly at the lens, his voice brittle with emotion, he said, “My contacts with Alves were at the direct request of President Drummond, a fact you almost surely know if you tried to use this same garbage on him. And General, you don’t get to decide who is more fit to govern, me or President Drummond. We have a constitution that you swore to uphold that sees to that. Do you mind explaining why the plane I was in on my way to Peterson Air Force Base was fired on? Is this some new vigilante justice you are serving up now in your zeal to save America from Paul Latimer?”

  “Mr. Latimer, I consider you a fugitive, a self-serving coward who failed to answer his president’s call, a dangerous purveyor of discontent, and arguably a traitor. Any means possible will be used to stop you from spreading your poison.”

  “Enough,” said General Stoner. “This is getting us nowhere. Morgan, I must see the president. I need you to set up the minicam wherever he is and I need to be able to talk to him. Until that happens I will have to keep my own counse1.”

  “Warren, I can have you relieved of command and arrested for insubordination.”

  “I wouldn’t try it, Morgan. Either the president is able to perform his duties or he is not. When do I see the president?”

  “You can see him right now.” General Slaider turned and bent over his desk. The picture flickered and returned, showing a bed with the president sleeping and a nurse sitting beside the bed. The camera zoomed in, showing a slow but discernible breathing rhythm. After a few moments the image flickered once again, returning the picture of General Slaider. Morgan Slaider remained silent.

  “Thank you, Morgan. It’s gratifying to see that the president is alive and under medical supervision. When do I speak with the president?”

  “Warren, it’s the middle of the night. The man is sleeping. I will arrange for a two-way link from his room by 10:00 this morning. Will that do?”

  “Until then, Morgan.”

  General Stoner turned off the telescreen screen.

  68

  It seemed to Latimer that he had never closed his eyes, but his groggy response to the persistent knocking on his door convinced him he had indeed fallen heavily asleep. Pushing the cover off and slowly turning and raising himself to a sitting position he called out, “Enter.”

  A young lieutenant saluted and apologized to him for waking him. “General Stoner is most anxious for you to follow me, sir, as soon as you can. He said to tell you that it was urgent.”

  Latimer shook his head trying quickly to assess the possibilities. He asked the lieutenant to be seated while he went into the bathroom. Within minutes he had prepared himself sufficiently to follow the lieutenant to General Stoner.

  He was not brought to Stoner’s office but to the brightly lit Situation Room overlooking the main air defense command operations center.

  A large telescreen, perhaps eight feet by twelve feet, dominated one wall. A dozen desk consoles, each complete with a computer workstation and telephone, formed a semicircle in front of the screen. A large table was place in front of these consoles, at the focus of the semicircular arc. Behind the arc of console desks, the room sloped up like a university lecture hall. There were three levels to the incline. Each level contained an arc of desks and work space for staff and support personnel.

  General Stoner stood at the large table at the focal point of the room. He was leaning over the table examining documents when Latimer and his escort entered the room. The general quickly dismissed the young lieutenant.

  “Paul, I’m afraid our General Slaider has double-crossed us.”

  Latimer, still not quite awake, looked quizzically at Stoner, asking, “What do you mean, Warren?”

  “He just finished a news conference he started at eight o’clock. The son of a bitch turns the media on and off whenever he wants to. All we get now are rebroadcasts of his conference.

  “What did he say?”

  Stoner flipped through a notepad to the beginning of his notes. “We’ve got it recorded, but I can give you the bottom line. You can listen to it afterward. I suspect there will be no conference with the president this morning, so you will have time to hear the whole thing.”

  Latimer sat down at one of the workstations. “All right, Warren, give me your summary.”

  “As I said, the conference started at eight o’clock. He announced the arrest of a five-person hit team responsible for the attack on the president. The team consisted of two Saudis, an Iranian, and two Syrians. All have diplomatic credentials. One of them, he claimed, impersonated a Secret Service agent. That’s how he allegedly got so close to the president. He also announced the alleged complicity of some American companies. Hard evidence existed, he claimed, implicating Continental Oil. Other companies were under investigation. He said that the wife of a high Continental official had been killed, but he gave no details regarding the circumstances of her death. He said that raids on the homes of the arrested diplomats uncovered documents revealing a wide-ranging network for espionage, subversion, and sabotage controlled and directed under the protection of their United Nations diplomatic immunity and extraterritorial privileges. He said large caches of weapons and explosives were also found. He said that while these searches of diplomatic properties were extraordinary, extraordinary times called for extraordinary measures. Slaider also announced that Russian and Chinese
forces had moved during the night to a higher level of preparedness and that the capabilities of US forces were being adjusted accordingly to match those changes.

  “I can confirm this to you, myself, Paul. He also indicated that thirty-five thousand troops had been deployed throughout the country so far with an anticipated level of one-hundred-and-fifty thousand by weekend. He said that while bombings had decreased substantially throughout the country as a result of the imposition of martial law in large population centers, bombings at a lower level of frequency persisted and that military assistance to local police forces will be expanded nationwide. As far as the president’s condition was concerned, he showed a telescreen tape of the president signing the executive order for the deployment of the troops and the various declarations of martial law. The president looked weak . . . you know, drugged. But under the circumstances of his injuries that would appear natural enough.”

  He stopped for a moment to raise his eyes from his notes and look at Latimer.

  “What about me, Warren? What did he have to say about me?”

  The general looked Latimer squarely in the eyes. “He said that your whereabouts was unknown. That you had refused to join the president and had purposely, for unknown reasons, evaded protective military escorts. In one incident, he claimed that two military police officers had been shot trying to make contact with you. He said that he hesitated to use the word as being perhaps too strong, but that you had every appearance of being a fugitive from the president.” General Stoner closed his notepad.

  “Warren, you know this is all a lot of crap. He’s either orchestrating these events or making them up.”

  “I know, Paul. I wish I understood why Morgan was doing all this. He may have gone nuts. But it doesn’t change the fact that you—I guess, we—are in one puddle of piss.”

  “We’ve got to get our side of this story out. That son of a bitch thinks he’s got everything going his way. Well, this is a political battle, not a military one, and I’ll clean his clock. He’s in my arena, Warren, and I’ll eat him for lunch. It’s time the American people heard from the vice president of the United States. I want to review all your communications networks—who you can communicate with and how. I want a communications officer and a small staff brought in here immediately. I want you to work with me to establish a public relations blitz. If he won’t produce the president live, in real time, then he better produce the cabinet. I want to get to every major newspaper publisher and telescreen station in America with my story. We have a constitution, by god, and I won’t let that crazy son of a bitch pervert it any more than he already has. Are you with me, Warren?”