Executive Treason (46 page)

“Mr. Director, it’s a fucking huge country. In fact, Indonesia is the biggest Muslim nation in the world. Let’s just say that up till now, except for some training initiatives we coordinated for the Indonesian Army, it ain’t been our problem.”

“I guess that’s changed,” Roarke remarked.

“Yes, it has.”

The National Director of Intelligence finished scanning a file and joined the conversation. “To the secretary’s point, this is a copy of a letter written to United Nations Secretary General Kofi Annan in 2000. It was signed by members of the Moluccan Christian Communication Forum.” He gave it to Harriman. “The Forum asked for help. They reported that jihad forces vowed to fight to their last drop of blood. They claimed that rebels were preparing for a more deadly attack. The Forum pleaded for the international community to step in. They argued that the stability of the region is threatened and the Malukus are becoming a terrifying breeding ground for international terrorism.”

“And what did the U.N. say?” Roarke asked, following up on his previous question.

“Basically, paraphrasing the secretary’s words, ain’t been their problem.”

“Jesus Christ! Why doesn’t everyone just open their borders and tell the terrorists to come right in. No taxes and kill as many people as you want,” Bernstein complained.

“My sentiments exactly,” the Secretary of Homeland Security added.

“Well, that’s exactly the point President Taylor was arguing in Australia,” said Jack Evans. “So let’s talk about how we free him and get on with it.”

At that moment, General Johnson called the briefing to order.

“All right everybody, listen up. As Secretary Harriman began explaining, the target is in the Banda Sea.” He called up a computer map on one 2″ plasma TV screen. “It’s a nearly enclosed sea, occupying about 18,000 square miles. The Banda is bounded by the southern Malukus and Ceram, Burn and Sula to the north.” He kept the map on one screen and called up a closer view on another plasma.

“Intel suggests the terrorists have landed on Haruku Island in the southeastern portion of the Banda. Haruku is one of a pair of islands, separated by a narrow passageway.” J3 walked in front of the screen and pointed to a cove, between two marked points: Naira and Timitu. “These were Christian cities. But a Laskar Jihad-led revolt put them in Muslim hands. Now most of Haruku, and its neighbor Saparua, is Muslim-held territory. The Christians who survived were relocated to the north. That means we will be going into an extremely hostile zone.”

“How big a force will we send?” FBI Director Robert Mulligan asked.

“Not how big, Mr. Director,” J3 responded. “How small.”

The Pentagon

“Status?” demanded General Johnson.

“Just confirmed from CTF-71—in a manner of speaking, they’re halfway there and getting closer.” Rear Admiral Erwin “Skip” Gatson explained that the team had been on leave in Honolulu. “They were due to ship back to Coronado in two days.” Gatson referred to the West Coast home of the SEALs at the Navy Amphibious Base in Coronado, California. “But we got them in the air twenty-two minutes ago.”

“Good, Skip,” J3 said over the secure telecom line. Gatson was Commander, Battle Force, 7th Fleet aboard the USS Blue Ridge, and a life-long personal friend of Johnson’s. J3′s next addition to the conference call was Air Force General Reed Heath.

“Talk to me, Reed. What are the AWACS seeing?”

“The signal is five by five. Transit has stopped.”

Stopped? J3 wondered if that was good or bad, whether the enemy knew who they had, and if that would even make a difference.

“Assume they know what kind of package they have, Reed. What do you think they’re doing?”

“Easy. Same thing we are. Trying to figure out what the hell to do.”

J3 had come to the exact same conclusion.

General Jonas Jackson Johnson shot a glance at the two clocks on the wall—the time in D.C. and the clock he set to Maluku time sixteen hours ahead. Halfway around the world it was 0417 hrs. “They barely have an hour of darkness left. Okay, they rushed to cover. They took Top Gun with them. So he’s alive. Given that, they’re going to wait until darkness again. They’ll hunker down, maybe weigh the benefits of negotiating, and delay any action until night. Any alternate views?”

“No,” the two others said in unison.

“Then that gives us fifteen hours to launch an offensive. Your boys up to it?” J3 asked Gatson.

“Yes, sir. We’re just going to need some good eyes overhead. Ours and Reed’s.”

“Anything you need, Skip,” the Air Force officer added.

“Good. We’ll get Predators up from Anderson.” The low-altitude, quiet unmanned aerial drones or UAVs, launched from Guam, would provide the SEALs with real-time guidance.

“We’ll give you all the pictures you need, Skip,” General Heath added.

“Thank you. Pull all your thoughts together and get back to me in thirty. Make sure your SEALs are rested, Skip. We’ll need them sharp.”

“Yes, sir.”

SEALs, an acronym for SEa, Air, and Land, are the Navy’s foremost special operations force. If the U.S. needs an enemy ship destroyed in a buttressed harbor, the job goes to the SEALs. When a beach needs to be “softened up” before a large-scale attack, SEALs get the call. They take out bridges, roads, railway lines, and communications centers. They parachute into global hot spots, though they’re more likely to swim into an area of operation. And they can swim for a very, very long time. Water is a SEAL’s best friend.

President John F. Kennedy commissioned the SEALs, the Navy’s former Underwater Demotion Team, on January 1, 1962, as an elite maritime special operations unit capable of striking anywhere in the world.

Skip Gatson tagged SEAL team THREE, one of eight operational platoons. The platoons are comprised of sixteen SEALs, which are divided into two squads of eight or four of four. Each SEAL platoon is generally commanded by a Navy lieutenant (0-3 grade). Today, the honors went to Lt. James Nolt. On Gatson’s call, Nolt selected the seven men he wanted with him. He was going in, too.

Over the Pacific

“Gentlemen, we have ourselves a genuine situation.”

Nolt shouted over the light whine of the C-17 Globemaster III engines. The SEAL team commander was ordered to brief his men in two parts. The first, while in the air; the second, after they parachuted to their South Pacific LZ near the USS Essex.

Much of Nolt’s Louisiana drawl fell off as he yelled. Not that it mattered. He only used it for effect and the SEALs knew it.

“If you didn’t believe me before we took off, believe it now. This is not a drill. We’re flying due west, then south. In six hours we’ll jump, you do the math and figure out where we’re going. A buddy in the 7th Fleet will lend you a shower. We’ll have a full briefing, a little trip in a pair of SDVs, and then a nice swim. Our mission is pretty straightforward. Enemy forces have taken a VIP and his entourage. Our job is to locate and neutralize the enemy, and get our people out for their first class trip home. Questions?”

“Who’s the bigshot?” asked Mario Pintar, one of the snipers in the team. He was laying out his gear in the C-7′s voluminous interior cabin. The space was large enough to play a regulation basketball game.

“Next question,” Nolt replied.

Pintar stopped his work. “Come again?”

Ordinarily, Special Ops forces heading into action would never be denied the identity and nature of the target. But Nolt had been instructed to wait for more ISR—intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance information. They wanted to know whether the president was alive.

“Next question,” Nolt repeated.

“Okay, don’t tell me,” Pintar said under his breath.

“What’s the size of the enemy force?” Julio Lopez asked.

“Undetermined at this time.”

“Unified army or guerillas, sir?” This question came from the youngest SEAL on the team, Brian Showalter. He still used “sir,” something SEALs generally ignored.

“Guerilla rebels. We suspect they’ve been supplied by the Chinese and other non-allied countries. But that’s an assumption only.”

“Any injured in the VIP’s party?” SEAL Harold Chaskes asked. He was a combatant who also served as medic.

“Unknown. Possibly.”

There were no further questions except for the ones that Nolt wouldn’t answer now. “So, what do you say we sit around the campfire? For old times’ sake.”

The SEALs grumbled. They knew what was coming.

“Lopez, let’s hear it.”

“Never underestimate the enemy,” he yelled over the whine of the engines. “No matter how untrained or disorganized.”

“Expect the worse and prepare for it,” added Chaskes.

“Never fight fair,” Pintar piped in.

“Talk the assholes back home out of proposing commando ops during daylight hours,” added SEAL Derek Shaughnessy.

Then, one after another they chimed in with the other rules that would keep them alive.

“Conserve your rounds…HQ might not know what the fuck is going on…Bad weather is your buddy…Review procedures…Review maps…Wire cutters come in handy…Be ready to kill.”

“And?” Nolt called out as a cue to a well-rehearsed line.

“Get the job done!” they all shouted.

They were pumped up. Soon they would sleep. He left them with one other thought for now.

“Once again, I remind you, this is not an exercise,” Nolt stated. “We are in an operation fully sanctioned by the government of the United States of America, under the command and coordination of General Jonas Jackson Johnson and the Joint Chiefs. We even have ourselves a code name. OPERATION EAGLE CLUTCH.”

“Ouch!” yelled Pintar.

“Snatch and grab,” Lt. Nolt summarized. “Our claws are going to be sharp.”

The Cabinet Room

“Speaker Patrick, I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

Eve Goldman, the attorney general, had been appointed to talk to the congressman.

Patrick stood, but that was his only nod to decorum. “Attorney General,” he blustered, “I’ve been wasting my good time for over an hour. I demand to know what is going on!”

“And so you will. Have a seat, Congressman Patrick.”

“I’ll stand,” he said defiantly. He never liked Goldman. In fact, he opposed all of Taylor’s appointments when he was part of the minority. If she, or any of his other cabinet members ever came up for another assignment, Patrick, now leader of the democratic majority would make life impossible for them.

“Fair enough, congressman. Here it is. Air Force One went down in the Pacific earlier today.”

“What?” Even this was too much for Patrick to comprehend. His knees buckled and he sank into the chair he wasn’t going to take.

She chose her words carefully. She was speaking to one of the country’s greatest leaks, let alone the man next in line to succeed Morgan Taylor. “Roughly three hours ago, the president’s plane encountered a series of mechanical problems.” She kept the actual details off the table. “We’re still determining the exact cause.”

“And Taylor?”

“President Taylor,” she said correcting him.

“President Taylor,” he noted without a hint of respect.

“That’s a question, Mr. Speaker?”

“Yes, it’s a goddamned question. What about President Taylor?”

“We haven’t heard from him since the crash.”

“And that was hours ago?”

“Yes, his plane went down in the South Pacific. The Navy has been overflying the area.”

“Then?” he asked anticipating his immediate future.

“We have a decision to come to, Congressman.”

“There’s no decision to come to, Madame Attorney General. It’s already been made for you. The 25th Amendment. Remember? I’m next in line.”

“Well, yes, and no, Mr. Speaker.”

“What do you mean, Goldman?” He was completely full of himself. “This is the law!” The door to the Cabinet Room suddenly flew open. “You can’t stop me.” Two Secret Services agents entered. Duke Patrick ignored them. “You need to swear me in. The country has to have a president!” Patrick was so self-absorbed that he didn’t see who followed the Secret Service agents into the Cabinet Room.

“The country has a president,” pronounced a frail, but authoritative Henry Lamden.

“I believe you’re in my seat, Mr. Speaker.”

Patrick had to look down. Lamden was in a wheelchair, rolling under his own steam. “Mr. President, I had no idea,” he said more angry than embarrassed.

“Apparently not. But then, you had no reason to think otherwise.” Lamden pulled up next to his chair at the cabinet table.

Still shocked, Patrick remained in the seat at the middle of the table. “My chair? Mr. Speaker?” In a completely awkward moment, Patrick stood and made way for the president to transfer from his wheelchair.

Henry Lamden had lost a good deal of weight, but none of his acrimony for Duke Patrick. They were from the same political party. That was the end of what they had in common.

“Gentlemen, Attorney General Goldman,” Lamden said, “can you give us a few minutes alone?”

The Secret Service agents filed out with a great story to tell their colleagues. Eve Goldman would have given her eyeteeth to stay and listen, but she took President Lamden’s cue. “You may sit down,” the president said. “I think I’d like to stand.”

“I would feel more comfortable if we saw each other eye-to-eye, Congressman.”

Another awkward moment. Patrick looked around the room, hoping one of the statues or paintings might feed him the right line. None came and he sat down opposite Lamden. When the door was closed, the president continued.

“So, my friend, three quick surprises for you in one day. Air Force One goes down. For a fleeting instant you see yourself in the White House, then an old pal crashes your party. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re feeling.”

“I’m relieved to see you, Mr. President.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit. Of course you’re not. You’re pissed as hell. You got this close! Right here. But not today, Patrick. Not this day, or God willing, any day soon. It’ll have to be over my dead body. And as you can see, I’m not quite there yet.”

“You have me all wrong, Mr. President. The country needs you.”

“That is debatable. The real truth is the country doesn’t need you.”