KBL (29 page)

The White House Situation Room, Washington, D.C.
March 29, 2011, 0900 Hours Local Time

The RIG had to be scheduled for nine o’clock because the president was traveling to New York just after noon to dedicate the U.S. Mission building. He was not the only one on travel. SECSTATE Kate Semerad was in London. She had promised to call the White House at precisely six minutes past nine from a secure phone in her limo as she traveled between her meeting with British Prime Minister David Cameron at 10 Downing Street and her appearance at Lancaster House, the neoclassical Bath stone palace on Stable Yard just off St. James’s, where she would meet with contributors to the Libyan opposition.

The president arrived precisely at nine, a black leather folder tucked under his arm like a football. The secure teleconferencing equipment had already been positioned on the long conference table. Under normal circumstances, no phones, BlackBerrys, or other devices were allowed in the room. POTUS was trailed by National Security Advisor Don Sorken and Rear Admiral (SEAL) Scott Moore, the JSOC detailee to the National Security Council. The CIA director, the secretary of defense, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and Wes Bolin were all waiting for him.

They rose as he came into the room. POTUS indicated they should sit down. He took his own seat and the others followed suit.

When they had settled, he opened the leather folder embossed with the Presidential Seal. “I hear we have some news today.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Vince Mercaldi spoke. “Two significant developments. The first is that we’ve had a sighting of an armed individual in the Khan compound.”

“Really? When?”

“Two days ago.”

“What was the source?”

“One of our CIA assets in Abbottabad.”

“And they were sure?”

“Absolutely, Mr. President.”

The president stared at his CIA director. “That’s the first indication aside from the overhead stuff that may point toward UBL being in that house.”

“Yes, sir. We think so, too. Spike took it as a very strong sign that UBL is there.”

The president nodded, but said nothing.

So Vince picked up where he’d left off. “The second is that our options have been reduced to one: a unilateral helicopter assault on the compound.”

“That’s a nasty surprise.” The president, obviously stunned and fuming, looked at the CIA director. Then he turned to the secretary of defense. “What about the air strike option, Rich?”

“It’s a no-go. CIA cannot confirm beyond a reasonable doubt that there isn’t a bunker under the compound. Therefore, the only way to guarantee mission success would be to go with two-thousand-pound enhanced munitions—bunker-busters—which certainly will cause major collateral damage.”

“Major collateral damage.” The president frowned. “We can’t have that.”

“No, sir, we can’t. Moreover, the destruction would be so total that even if we recovered Bin Laden DNA at the site there would be no way to prove it was from Usama and not one of his children.”

The president frowned again and massaged his chin.

Don Sorken cleared his throat.

The president noted the look of concern on his National Security Advisor’s face. “Don, you look worried.”

“Not worried, Mr. President. But apprehensive, yes. And nervous about a mission that could very easily be compromised.” The NSC chairman looked around the table until his gaze fell on the secretary of defense. “And I was led to believe I wasn’t the only one nervous about a ground assault.”

“I still have concerns,” Rich Hansen said, “but in this case, where our options have been severely limited by the situation on the ground, the need for zero collateral damage, and current intelligence estimates, I think we have to listen to Admiral Bolin, whose people have successfully pulled off more than seventeen hundred of these types of missions in the past year alone. And—”

The teleconference unit in front of the president buzzed. Don Sorken pressed the receive button. “Kate, is that you?”

The room fell silent. Within a few seconds, Kate Semerad’s voice said, “Can you all hear me? Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Good morning, Madam Secretary.”

They could hear her hearty laugh on the speaker. “It’s a lovely day in London. By the way, David Cameron sends you best wishes.”

“I hope you gave him mine.” The president peered at his folder. “Kate, we were just discussing the Pakistan matter, and it would seem that we’ve had our options narrowed to a boots-on-the-ground thing. Where do you stand on that?”

There was a pause, then Semerad’s resonant voice filled the Situation Room. “I’m fine with it, Mr. President. To be honest, I was always a little nervous about the air strike option, as it’s so easy for something to go wrong and cause collateral damage. That was something my husband’s administration found out in Serbia back in the nineteen-nineties. You may have missed this in Chicago, but despite the best intelligence and precision weaponry, CIA got some of its map coordinates wrong, and we mistakenly bombed the Chinese Embassy in Belgrade.”

There was a pause. Then she continued. “I know Vince’s people would never do that—he’s really brought the Agency back. But mistakes happen, and there’s always Murphy’s Law.”

The president leaned toward the speakerphone. “But what about the Pakistanis?” He looked at Sorken. “The latest NSC estimate is that if we continue to aggravate relations they might renege on many of our bilateral agreements regarding counterterror programs and, more important, our supply chain to Afghanistan.”

“Frankly, Mr. President, I think that between myself and Secretary Hansen, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and Vince, we can handle the Pakistanis and deal positively with any potential blowback. I don’t doubt that they will not receive this well. But to be blunt, we are largely keeping their country afloat. Pakistan’s economy is in the cellar. The per capita GDP there is just over a thousand dollars a year. There’s a fifteen percent unemployment rate—that’s almost thirty million people without work. If not for the United States they’d be virtually destitute. The Pakistanis lack India’s entrepreneurial spirit and they don’t have Afghanistan’s natural resources.” There was momentary static on the line and the secretary’s words were garbled.

The president said, “Come again, Kate?”

“I was just summing up, Mr. President. I’m certain that if you as commander in chief decide to go ahead, the mission will resolve successfully. And I believe that Admiral Bolin’s scenario is both the most practical and the most efficient.”

“You are. You do.”

“I am and I do.”

“Well, then.” The president tapped his pen on the open folder in front of him. “Thank you, Madam Secretary. Safe travels.” He waited as Sorken disconnected the line and the equipment was removed. The president looked pointedly at the CIA director. “That certainly was another surprise.”

Vince said, “I think she’s spent a lot of time thinking about this. After all, she’s lived through similar situations before.”

“Hmmm.” The president massaged his chin with his thumb and index finger. He swiveled toward Wes Bolin. “Admiral,” he said, “it looks as if the ball is in your court by default.” He looked at Vince and then back to Bolin. “How soon can you present us with an op-plan?”

Wesley Bolin had worked his answer out long before the question was asked. And he knew enough to cut himself some slack. “I’ll need three weeks, Mr. President. I want to red-team every piece of this operation.”

“Red-team?”

“Yes, sir. As my people work out our operation plan I’ll have a red team—a cadre of my most experienced operators—challenging every one of their decisions. We’ll try to uncover our vulnerabilities so we can adapt to mitigate and overcome them. We will also integrate every element of the operation into a seamless, holistic totality. Then we’ll do it all again, and again—until I am convinced we have it right.”

“And who will you select, Admiral, to get the job done?”

“Navy SEALs, Mr. President. DEVGRU’s SEALs, to be precise. They’ve got the most experience in Afghanistan and Pakistan, some of them have language skills, and they are used to working high-risk clandestine and covert assignments.”

“DEVGRU. The Naval Special Warfare Development Group.” The national security advisor scowled. “Wasn’t that the unit involved in the killing of a civilian hostage during a rescue attempt recently?”

“Yes, sir, it was.”

The president interjected, “And you still want to use them?”

“Mr. President,” Bolin said, “I trust DEVGRU’s SEALs to do the right thing. I believe that the ones involved in the incident Mr. Sorken mentioned have been disciplined—and at least one of them has been separated from the unit. But let me be emphatic, sir. I have commanded this unit. They have protected you, they have protected the secretary here and also the chairman. And I would trust any of these DEVGRU SEALs with my own life—and have done as recently as a month ago.”

“You have?”

“In Afghanistan. Accompanied them on a mission near Khost. They operated flawlessly. And they will operate equally flawlessly when it comes to Abbottabad and Usama Bin Laden.”

The president’s pen tapped rapidly on the folder as he spoke. “I defer to your experience, Admiral, as to the units used, their tactics, and the technologies you employ. But”—his face grew somber—“I’ve spoken about this . . . possibility in the most general of terms—let me emphasize that again—the
most general of terms—
to some of those whose opinions I trust.” He paused. “And universally, reaction was negative. Negative!” He scanned the table. “We, you and I, have had our differences about the direction of national security policy and about the conduct of military operations, both in Iraq and Afghanistan. But everyone here should understand that I have no preconceptions. Nor do I hold any prejudicial thoughts one way or the other about whether to go or not to go.”

Stroking his chin, the president looked directly at Vince Mercaldi. “I will not be railroaded or steamrollered by anyone.
Will not!
” He scanned the rest of the attendees. “But I won’t be close-minded, either.” He tapped his pen on the table for emphasis. “If you can make the case, Admiral, I’ll consider—
consider
—a helicopter strike on the compound. If you cannot, then as commander in chief I will turn thumbs-down, and both the issue and the mission will be over. Finished. Dead.”

He paused, barely able to conceal his anger. “And we’ll pray that no one at Fox News ever finds out how much money we have spent drilling a dry hole in a two-bit town in Pakistan that very few people have ever heard of.”

Vince spoke so quickly he almost cut the president off. “That’s fair enough, Mr. President. We couldn’t ask for more.”

The president said nothing. He just glared at the CIA director.

Vince looked across the table at Wesley Bolin. “Well, as the president said, looks like the ball’s in your court, Admiral.”

Bolin’s face was impassive, but his response was instantaneous. “I’ll have something for you in twenty-one days, Mr. President.”

“That would be the nineteenth of April.” The president slapped his folder shut with a noise like a gunshot and rose abruptly. “I’ll be waiting, Admiral. Good luck.” Then he wheeled toward the door and exited without acknowledging the rest of the room.

27