Authors: Richard Herman
“Sumbitch,” Brian growled. “I can remember when you needed a ladder to reach the freakin’ washbasin and couldn’t lift anything heavier than your pecker.”
“Things change,” Zack said. It was true. He was taller than Brian and outweighed him by ten pounds.
“Knock it off,” Brian’s roommate said, now also fully awake. “What’s up?”
“They got live coverage from the Gulf on the TV in JRT,” Zack said. JRT was John Ross Thomas Hall, where the cadet lounge was located. “Let’s go.”
“Shee-it,” Brian’s roommate said. “I just got off restriction. No way I’m missin’ a bed check.” He rolled over and went back to sleep as Brian hurriedly dressed in the dark.
The two cadets slipped out of the room and hurried down the stoop to the stairs. Without a word a Secret Service agent trailed after them. They heard him report in with a curt “Merlin’s moving.” “Merlin” was the code word a Department of Defense computer had cranked out for Brian when his mother assumed the presidency of the United States. They slipped through the deep shadows as they made their way to JRT, which was lit up like a Christmas tree. The TLA who had the night duty saw them immediately and waved them inside, where forty or so upperclassmen were clustered around the big TV set.
A scene straight out of hell was on the screen. Men were running as explosions ripped the ground. A Humvee disappeared in a fireball as the camera captured a T-72 main battle tank firing at point-blank range. A wire-guided antitank missile streaked overhead, missing the tank and slamming into an eight-wheeled armored personnel carrier. “Christ,” the TLA said. “That’s a BTR-60. Those fuckers are mobile.”
On the TV the voice of a woman reporter could be heard shouting above noise. “A tank has broken through—” The clatter of heavy machine-gun fire cut her off as the camera swung around. The woman was lying in a crumpled heap in a shallow depression behind a burned-out Land Rover. The words press corps could still be seen on the scorched paint. The tank fired again, and the Land Rover disintegrated. Now the cameraman was running, his camera still on. Men were streaming out the back of the disabled BTR-60 as the cannon on the tank lowered, then lifted.
“The T-72,” the TLA explained, trying to be the cool professional, “lowers the cannon muzzle to eject the spent shell casing, then raises the muzzle to autoload a fresh round.” The cadets watched in horror as the barrel started to come down, directly toward the running cameraman. Another Humvee raced into view, crossing in front of the cameraman. The soldier manning the TOW wire-guided antitank missile mounted on top of the Humvee swung it around and fired. The missile leaped out of the tube and headed for the tank as the cannon’s muzzle dropped. The cadets held their breath as the duel
played out. The missile hit the turret just as the cannon fired. The sound of the cannon round passing inches above the cameraman’s head filled the room as the tank exploded.
“That is one lucky dude,” the TLA said. Again the camera swung, and the woman reporter was up and running, her Kevlar vest in tatters, her helmet gone. She jumped into a ditch as another much heavier, and slower-sounding, machine gun swept the field, ripping apart the soldiers from the BTR-60. The TLA breathed easier. “That’s an MK-19 grenade machine gun doing the damage,” he explained. “It fires a forty-millimeter, high-explosive, dual-purpose round. We’re talking industrial-strength deterrence here.” Suddenly the scene was silent as the cadets erupted in cheers. The TLA took a deep breath. “I got to tell you, I was in the Gulf in ’91 and never saw action like that.”
Zack looked at Brian. “We’re gonna miss it,” he said in a low voice.
The TLA worked his way through the cadets to the TV. “Gentlemen, you are indeed fortunate that I suffer from poor night vision. I’m gonna turn off the TV, and when I’m finished with this laborious and time-consuming task, I hope to hell this room is vacant and that I find you all safe as bugs in a rug in your bunks.”
It was, and he did.
Lackland Air Force Base
Wednesday, September 8
The two sergeants waiting inside the 341st Training Squadron’s orderly room jumped to their feet when Rockne walked in. “Thanks for coming down, Chief,” Tech Sergeant Paul Travis said. “I believe you know Staff Sergeant Jake Osburn.” The men shook hands all around. “The squadron deployed this morning to backfill for units headed for the Gulf,” Paul told Rockne. “There’s only four of us left, and we can sure use some help around here.”
“Who are the other two?” Rockne asked.
“Staff Sergeant Jessica Maul,” Paul replied. “She was a no-show for the deployment. The other is Airman First Class Cindy Cloggins. She’s your admin clerk.”
“A real bimbo,” Jake muttered.
Paul gave him a long look. “She’s just young. She’s doing okay and will make a good cop.”
“Let’s get to work,” Rockne said. Travis nodded and escorted him into the administration section.
Cindy Cloggins jumped to her feet, not quite as frightened as the last time she had met Rockne. “Good afternoon, Chief.”
“You remembered,” Rockne said. Cindy Cloggins gave a little nod and relaxed. “I need to speak to Sergeant Maul,” he told her.
“I haven’t seen her today, Chief,” Cindy replied.
Rockne stared at her. “The squadron deploys, and she’s still not here?” he said. It wasn’t meant to be a question. “Find her.” He turned and walked into his new office.
Rockne was on the phone when a young woman knocked on his door. “Chief Rockne,” she said, out of breath. “No excuse, but I’m ready to go now.”
He read her nametag. “Staff Sergeant Maul—as in shopping mall?”
Jessica grimaced at the play on her name. “That’s correct, Chief.”
“Why did you miss the deployment?” he asked.
“My asshole husband changed his mind and said he wasn’t gonna baby-sit while I was gone. It took me some time to sort it out.”
“And?”
“He changed his mind. Which he won’t do again.”
Rockne liked the determined look on her face. “I imagine he won’t.”
“Are we going to the Gulf?” she asked.
“Nope.”
A frown crossed Jessica’s pretty face. “Damn.”
“As of now,” Rockne told her, “you’re the acting kennel master.”
Jessica brightened. “I can do that.”
“My dog’s in my pickup out front. Please put her in the kennel.”
She smiled broadly. “I know Boyca.”
Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, September 8
President Turner escorted Senator Leland into the Situation Room. “We try to keep these briefings short,” she explained as she sat down. She had invited Leland to the White House to meet with the ExCom in the hope of moderating his opposition before the politics of waging a war divided Congress into the hawks and the doves.
Patrick Shaw stood and offered his seat to the senator. “Glad you could make it, Senator.” He stood against the wall, thankful that Leland was not at his back.
Can’t trust that bastard at all,
he thought.
Turner nodded at Colonel Scovill, the Marine briefer who was standing in front of the computer-driven monitors. His voice was under strict control as he started the briefing. “Madam President, we have the results of last night’s missions over Baghdad. As of now every bridge over the Tigris River in the city is down and all electrical power is off. Only the water system remains untouched.” He allowed a tight smile. “I can reconfirm that all aircraft returned undamaged.”
“The French,” Leland said, “claim we bombed Saddam Hussein’s palace. Is that true, and if it is, isn’t that a violation of the Geneva Convention?”
“Yes to the first question and no to the second,” the colonel answered. From the frown on Leland’s face, it wasn’t the answer he wanted.
“Do you have the details?” Turner asked.
Scovill managed to keep a straight face as he spoke. “Yes, ma’am, we do. But the language is a bit—” He paused, searching for the right words. “—shall we say risqué.”
“I’m quite sure we’re all adult,” Turner replied.
A little grin played on the Marine’s lips. “Yes, ma’am.” He keyed the remote control in his right hand, and the monitor on the left came to life. “This is the unedited target video from the F-117 Stealth fighter that bombed Saddam’s main palace.”
A greenish image filled the screen, and the pilot’s voice could be heard as he described the bomb run. “There’s the Tigris,” the pilot said. He laid the crosshairs on a bridge spanning the river. “The Jumhuiya Bridge. Follow the main boulevard to the southwest…there’s the government conference center…which points to the palace. All checks with the GPS.” The image was unbelievably sharp as he positioned the crosshairs over the huge doors that led into the main entrance hall. A light flashed at the bottom of the screen. “Bomb gone,” the pilot said in a conversational tone. Nothing betrayed the fact that he was deep over hostile territory.
“Please note the time-to-go timer in the lower right-hand corner of the screen,” Scovill said. “When it reaches zero, the bomb will impact on the crosshairs.” Silence held the room in thrall as the seconds counted down. The crosshairs on the screen never moved from the big doors as the pilot flew an arc around the palace. When the timer touched four, the pilot said, “Knock-knock, muthafucker.” The bomb flew through the door and into the main hall. The screen mushroomed as the bomb detonated, and then it went blank.
Shaw let out a loud guffaw as Leland came to his feet. “That’s not funny!” Leland roared. “How can we protect innocent civilians when our pilots have that kind of attitude? I want that pilot court-martialed and made an example of.” He stood there, his jowls quivering as the room echoed with his fury. “Do not misjudge me on this,” he warned. He spun around and stormed out of the room.
“Must’ve been something the good senator et,” Shaw muttered in his best Texas accent as he sat down in the empty chair.
Turner shook her head. “Well, I tried. Do we have a problem here?”
“Only if you court-martial the pilot,” General Wilding replied.
“How so?” Turner asked.
“We’ll have sent the wrong message about mission accomplishment,” Wilding said.
“Court-martial any pilot for hitting his assigned target,” Butler added, “and half the pilots will abort for mechanical problems before they even take off. The other half will be hard-pressed to find their targets, and we’ll be lucky to see ten percent of our bombs on target. Even then not one will press the envelope.”
“What does that mean?” Turner asked.
“They won’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“Isn’t that a form of mutiny?”
“Call it what you will,” Butler answered, a rare emotion in his voice. “But it is human nature. If we order them into combat, we had damn well better back them up.”
“Are you suggesting I give him a medal?”
“It’s worth thinking about,” Butler replied.
Turner nodded. Then, “I do worry about civilian casualties. Do we have any idea? Leland will make it an issue.”
The Marine thought for a moment before answering. “The Iraqis claim we’ve killed over five thousand civilians and wounded thousands more. We’re monitoring their hospitals and have noticed a nominal increase in activity, but nothing that supports the casualties they claim. The hospitals are certainly not swamped, and for the most part it’s business as usual. We do expect to see more activity when casualties are brought in from the fighting in Saudi Arabia.”
“If they can get across the river,” Turner added.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct.”
The president arched an eyebrow in Shaw’s direction—his cue to leave. “Ah,” he groused, “the dreaded executive session.” He ambled back to his corner office in the West Wing and sifted through the stack of notes and telephone memos on his desk. One note caught his attention, and an hour later he told his secretary that he was going to his favorite restaurant, four blocks away, before it closed for the evening.
As expected, the young lady was waiting for him in the bar. They chatted for a few moments before the maître d’ escorted them to a table in a far corner of the dining room. “Well, love, anything exciting going on in the wonderful world where you seem to spend most of your days?”
“You know I can’t talk about that,” she murmured. He nodded, accepting the truth of it. She worked in the bowels of the National Security Agency and specialized in monitoring electronic communications—of which sort, Shaw had no idea. He felt her hand on his knee and reached for it, covering it with his own. Then he withdrew his hand and dropped the cassette tape into his pocket.
They spent the next hour in idle chatter as they savored the exquisite meal. “Well, love, I’ve got to return to the dungeon. War to win and all that good stuff.”
“Patrick,” she asked, “what exactly do you do?”
He smiled at her. “Whatever needs doin’.” He called for the bill and headed back to the White House. Once in his office, he fished the cassette out of his pocket and examined it. The slickly printed label announced executive escorts for your listening pleasure. He dropped the cassette into a player and leaned back to listen as a woman’s sexy voice announced the discreet pleasures offered by some of Washington’s most beautiful and captivating ladies. His dinner companion’s voice cut in and said, “Recorded today at five twenty-two p.m.”
A man’s voice with a heavy French accent said, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
Leland’s voice replied, “You brokering a cease-fire.”
The French voice answered, “We can do that.”
His dinner companion’s voice was back. “If you would like to learn more, please give me a call.” The tape ended. Shaw gave a loud sigh and dialed a number. His dinner companion answered on the first ring. “I thought you’d be interested.”
“How much?” Shaw asked.
“Five thousand.”
Now who’s the hooker?
Shaw thought. He knew the risks
she was taking using the National Security Agency’s super-classified equipment to monitor phone calls in the United States. It was worth twenty years in Leavenworth. But, more important, did he want to take the risk? He decided he didn’t. “Later, doll.”
“I’ll be here,” she cooed, “if you change your mind.”