Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (38 page)

           
“A visual inspection?” Lowe
interjected. “You mean visually inspect
every
plane that looks suspicious? Hardcastle, do you have any idea how many planes
that is?”

 
          
“On
average, one plane over seventy-five thousand pounds gross weight takes off
every five seconds from the thirty largest American airports,” Hardcastle
replied. “That’s over seventeen thousand flights per day. But three- quarters
of those are scheduled passenger flights, which leaves about four thousand
flights per day that are cargo flights or flights of unknown purpose or
cargo—business, private, small commercial, expedited freight, all that. That’s
about one hundred and thirty flights per day from each of the nation’s thirty
largest airports, or about five per hour. I believe those flights can be
inspected. If we organize local, state, and federal authorities, including
reserve law enforcement personnel and the military, we can inspect each and
every flight.

 
          
“But
I don’t have any illusions that this system will be airtight,” Hardcastle went
on. “The Border Security Force had a tight, overlapping, redundant air
surveillance network, and smugglers still found ways around it. Cazaux is
clever as well as dangerous—I work under the assumption that he’ll figure out a
way to beat the system. But we must have a way to stop Cazaux before he gets
over the airport terminal, and that means an integrated air defense network. We
must have the ability to monitor, precisely track, and, if necessary, attack
any
hostile aircraft
anywhere
in the airspace system,
primarily around the thirty-three major airports under Class B airspace in the
United States
.”

 
          
“I’m
strongly opposed to this idea, Mr. President,” Lowe insisted. “I think it’ll
result in accidents and needless civilian deaths. It’s like letting Dirty Harry
loose on the airports.”

 
          
“I’m
afraid I’m opposed to the idea as well, Mr. President,” Transportation
Secretary Mersky interjected. “There will be problems integrating civil air
traffic control functions with military requirements.”

           
“But it
can
be done, Secretary Mersky,” Hardcastle said. “I proved that
with the Hammerheads. I’ve had plenty of success with this type of emergency,
Mr. President. We.can implement this program in just a few days. I think it’s
vital, sir.”

 
          
The
President fell silent, apparently thinking it over; then he turned to
Hardcastle and said, “All right, Ian. I don’t like the idea, but we gotta move
on this thing.” The President withdrew a card from his jacket pocket, glanced
at it, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Deputy Attorney General Lowe, I’m
going to announce to Congress that under 10 U.S.C. 332 and 333, I’m directing a
military response to this crisis situation. Deputy Lowe, under the law I’m
appointing a military representative as your deputy director of the Executive
Committee on Terrorism. He’ll interface with Justice and various branches of
the military and coordinate an effective response. I want to emphasize that the
military’s involvement is limited to protection of major airports around the
country, not in law enforcement matters.”

 
          
The
President then turned toward Hardcastle and continued, “It’s time to put your
money where your mouth is, Admiral, so I’ll just come right out and say it: I
want
you
to head the program,
Admiral. You are going to be the military liaison to the Executive Committee on
Terrorism.”

 
          
Hardcastle
could have fallen out of his chair in surprise. He gasped, “Excuse me, sir ...
?”

 
          
“I’ve
got no other choice,” the President drawled simply, sounding a bit defeated.
“Cazaux’s out there. Judge Wilkes is closing in on him, but until she nails
him, we’ve got to act decisively. My own Cabinet is divided on the subject. I
need the best in the business to head this thing, and as much as I hate to
admit it, you’re the best candidate. What’d you say, Admiral? You want in?”
Hardcastle glanced quickly at Scheer, Mersky, Lowe, and Wilkes: all but Wilkes
stared straight ahead, emotionless. Only Wilkes seemed angry enough to spit
bullets. “I need your answer, Ian. This can’t wait any longer. I need you to
get together with Dr. Scheer and get the hardware moving into place.”

 
          
“Then
I’m your man, Mr. President,” Hardcastle said. “I’ll start immediately.”

 
          
“Good
answer,” the President said, relieved, hoping he could get the hell out of
there. “I’ll announce it at this afternoon’s press conference. You’ll be under
Mike Lifter, title of Special Assistant to the President for National Security.
However, I’d still like all of you to report to Deputy Attorney General Lowe on
all antiterrorist stuff—let her talk to me about our responses. You’ll get
commensurate three- star pay, standard nondisclosure agreement, you know the
drill. Happy to have you aboard, Admiral. I’ll let you, Mike, and Don Scheer
get at it. Good luck.”

 
          
With
that, Hardcastle had been dismissed. He rose, led his staff out with him, and
was joined outside the Oval Office by National Security Advisor Michael Lifter
and a military aide.

 
          
“We’ve
set up a staff meeting at the Pentagon,” Lifter said. He was a tall, thin,
severe-looking man with small, dark, nervous eyes and a high forehead that made
him look sinister and secretive. “Secretary Scheer will meet us there' along
with the Chairman. I’m sure they’ll have a videoconference set up with General
Lawson of A-COM.” The Chairman, Hardcastle knew, was the popular (at least with
the media, the military, and the public—less so with the President and the Cabinet)
and powerful Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Philip T.
Freeman. Army General Thomas Lawson was CINCACOM,
Commander in Chief
,
U.S.
Atlantic Command, the major military
command charged with the defense of the “lower forty-eight” states. Hardcastle
did not know Lawson; he would have chosen Air Force General Charles Skye
instead—perfect name for an Air Force four-star general and former Thunderbirds
demonstration-team solo pilot—who was commander of U.S. Space Command and
automatically “triple-hatted” as commander of the U.S. Aerospace Defense
Command and the joint U.S.-Canadian North American Air Defense Command. But it
was the President’s call. “We can take my car . . .”

 
          
“Sir,
if you don’t mind, we’ll follow you over,” Deborah Harley suddenly interjected.

 
          
Lifter
looked a bit puzzled. He glanced at Harley, dismissed her with an impassive
blink of his snakelike eyes, then back at Hardcastle: “I have some important
matters to go over with
you,
Admiral.”

 
          
“Well
meet
you
over there in the Chairman’s office, Mr. Lifter,” Harley said.

 
          
There
was no ignoring her this time. Lifter nodded, swallowed, muttered a curt “Very
well. One hour. The secretary has your toll passes and plates.”

 
          
As
they collected their government plates and toll plaza passes from the White
House Operations secretary and exited the White House, Hardcastle said, “Miss
Harley, what in the hell was that about? And what in blazes did that note say?”

 
          
“It
said, Admiral, that you were being
set
up,
and they executed it perfectly,” Harley said. “You didn’t see it
coming?”

 
          
“See
what coming?” Sheehan asked.

 
          
“How
about you, Colonel Vincenti?” Harley asked. “What did you see?”

 
          
“I
saw ‘good cop, bad cop,’ ” Vincenti said. “Hate to say it, Admiral, but they
played you like a fiddle.”

 
          
“Did
you really think it was a good idea to
head
this air defense task force, Admiral?” Harley asked. “May I ask why you agreed
to do it?”

 
          
“Because
I can help with this situation,” Hardcastle replied. His mind’s eye was
furiously replaying the sequence of events in his head, and the more he
recalled, the worse he realized he looked. “Damn it, I
can
help with this situation. I can directly implement my plan.”

 
          
“Admiral,
your plan has merit,” Harley said, “but you’re not part of this Administration.
You won’t be allowed to implement your program the way you want—you’re an
assistant to the National Security Advisor, and Lifter’s only an adviser, not
in the military chain of command. Furthermore, you won’t be permitted to speak
to the press or the public, including the Project 2000 Task Force. Under the
terms of the White House Non-Disclosure Agreement, the Chief of Staff,.through
the director of White House communications, tells you to whom you can and
cannot give statements. If you bust their guidelines— and I guarantee, if they
want you to bust the rules, you
will
—they
can throw you in prison. They’ve done it many times in the past. While you’re
stuffing some congressman’s newsletters in minimum security, they’ll roast your
reputation so badly you’ll be lucky to be allowed to lead a Cub Scout pack
anywhere near
Washington
. Minority Leader Wescott, Senator Heyerdahl, even former Vice President
Martindale can’t help you then. You’ve been very effectively squelched, Admiral
Hardcastle, and you did it to yourself. Looks like you just canceled all your
TV appearances for a while.” Harley shrugged, giving him a cheerful but tired
smile. “Don’t feel bad, Admiral. The President is very good at flimflamming
someone—so good, he does it to himself and his wife all the time.”

 
          
Hardcastle
was tight-lipped and scowling as he emerged . from the White House, but just as
their car was driven over to them at the entrance to the West Wing, he turned
to Harley and said, “I may have been porked by the President, Miss Harley, but
they still appointed me Special Assistant to the National Security Advisor. I
want to test the boundaries of that office, and you’re going to help me do it.”

 
          
Deborah
Harley’s shoulders quivered and her eyes brightened in anticipation for a
moment, but then her expression turned downcast. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but I’ve
got a job—”

 
          
“I
don’t know exactly in what capacity you serve Kevin Martindale, Miss Harley,
but one thing’s for sure—I’ve got a toe in the White House right now. I think
you would serve the Vice President and the Project 2000 Task Force better if
you were with me instead of spying on Martindale’s political enemies—isn’t that
what you do, Miss Harley?”

 
          
Harley
blushed—something Hardcastle never thought he’d see her do. “I don’t think it’s
relevant to discuss—” “What’s wrong, Miss Harley? Don’t you think you can pass
the White House security check?”

 
          
“Admiral,
I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Harley said. “I know precisely what my
White House security file says—I designed it. In fact, I’ve seen the White
House’s security report on
you.
I’ll
even
show
it to you later on.”
Hardcastle nodded—he could tell by her confident halfsmile and steady gaze that
she was telling the truth. This woman was much more than a simple executive
assistant— she was obviously Martindale’s chief troubleshooter, an invisible
insider able to pass through the inner sanctums of the current Administration
with apparent ease—definitely not someone to piss off. “Find anything
interesting to you, Miss Harley?”

 
          
She
laughed, pointed a finger accusingly at Hardcastle, and replied, “All I can say
is, Admiral, that if you plan on doing only half the things to Henri Cazaux
that you did to the Haitian, Bahamian, and Colombian governments while you were
with the Hammerheads, Cazaux is in big, big trouble.”

 
          
Fallon Naval Air Station,
Nevada
Three Days Later

           
Before any aircraft carrier air wing
begins a cruise, its crews must certify to the carrier air group commander that
they are fully qualified and ready to perform their assigned duties. For Navy
and Marine Corps strike units in the western half of the United States, that
means a trip to Navy Fallon in northern Nevada for a very intensive two-month training
and evaluation course on aerial gunnery, bombardment, and missile tactics. With
thousands of square miles of ranges spread out over three counties, mostly
desolate hills and dry lake beds, hundreds of men (and now women) per year
streak over the high desert and mountains, line up on plywood tanks or
airfields scratched into the hard-baked earth by bulldozers, and drop thousands
of tons of live bombs, rockets, missiles, and cannon rounds. The ranges are
also used for operational evaluations of new weapons about to be deployed for
the first time. Because of its very isolated location, Navy Fallon is also one
of the country’s largest ordnance depots, from which thousands of tons of
weapons and explosives are stored, distributed, repaired, refurbished,
dismantled, and disposed.