Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (16 page)

 
          
“If
the force is never,
never
applied
within the
United States
, the American people won’t care what we did
as long as it got results.”

 
          
“You
sound like Bud McFarlane or Oliver North all of a sudden, General,” the Vice
President said acidly. “Are you forgetting the Iran-contra debacle? We may have
a Republican Congress now, but that doesn’t mean they or the American people
will like or appreciate what you’re trying to do.”

 
          
Whiting
turned to the President and went on: “Let’s assume for a moment that there is
legal precedent for forming such a group, Mr. President, that this Air Force
Intelligence Agency can legally do these missions. The question you need to ask
yourself is, will you take the bombardment of criticism we’re undoubtedly going
to receive? You cannot hope that General Freeman or anyone else is going to
deflect or absorb the negative press for us. Could this be considered an abuse
of power? Could this be considered an impeachable offense? Will this affect our
chances of a second term—or could this even affect our ability to effectively
govern through our
first
term in
office?”

 
          
The
President returned to his desk and slouched, as he was fond of doing in private
when he had an important matter to consider. He saw lines lighting up on his
phone—his staff was holding all calls for now, but he knew the ones lighting up
the phone were the most important ones. Time was running out.

 
          
Iran
was gearing up its war machine. He could
feel it. Just like Saddam Hussein in the 1980s, like Milosevic and the Bosnian
Serbs in the 1990s—the signs were all there of an impending calamity, of a
dangerous and bloody war. All of these dictators had one thing in common: they
wanted to use a strong military force to demonstrate to their friends and foes
alike that they were powerful leaders. The instant that a conflict or threat
developed, such leaders were too quick to send their bloated military forces
off to war. Martindale had always faulted others for not seeing the signs and
reacting in time— he was determined not to let that happen again.

 
          
History
would not treat him kindly if some disaster occurred before the bad guys
started hostilities. If the B-2A crashed over
Iran
while doing a secret reconnaissance, or if
one of those anti-radar missiles hit a school or hospital and killed innocent
civilians, Martindale would be labeled a warmonger. When he had been Vice
President, he’d gladly accepted that title—now he wasn’t so sure such a name
would be good for his political career. But if the presence of the B-2A kept a
conflict from escalating, if it was at the right place at the right time, it
would be a major military and foreign-policy victory for him. . . .

 
          
“Do
it, Philip,” the President said.
“Quietly.
Form a team, map out a plan, bring them together, then report back to me. I’ll
brief the

 
          
Cabinet
myself after I’ve heard your plan. This plan might die at birth, but get things
moving. Baby steps, General. Quietly and gently. Full security.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Freeman responded.

 
          
He
saw Whiting close her eyes, and said to her, “I’ve answered your question,
Ellen—yes, I’ll take the heat. If it’s legal, I’ll do it. I need to do
something
—I can’t wait for the
Middle East
to blow up in our faces before we act. I
want something in my hip pocket ready to go, to try to stop the hemorrhaging
before it’s necessary to go to our allies and to Congress to authorize an act
of war.” He hit the button to the outer office, instructing his personal
secretary to give him a list of the most important callers. “That’ll be all,
ladies and gents.” But he was wrong, the President knew as he had his secretary
dial the first number on his growing priority phone list. This was not all—this
was only the beginning.

Aboard air Force One, somewhere
over
Texas

LATER THAT DAY

 
          
As
was his custom when traveling on Air Force One, the President wandered back to
where several members of the White House Press Corps were busy preparing news
items, and he spent a few moments with each person over coffee and bran muffins
that had been freshly prepared in one of Air Force One’s two kitchens. The
President had ditched his usual dark blue business jacket and red silk tie and
was wearing a blue cotton Air Force One windbreaker, with two buttons open on
his white business shirt underneath. “How’s it going back here this afternoon,
folks?” the President greeted them. They all came to their feet as he entered,
preceded by a Secret Service agent, and he heard an unintelligible chorus of
words and lots of smiling, so he assumed they had all said, “Fine, Mr.
President,” or something to that effect. Traveling with the President of the
United States
aboard
 
Air Force One had to be the ultimate assignment for a reporter, and he
rarely heard a complaint.

           
“Please, take your seats, thank you.
Got enough coffee back here?” Nods and smiles all around. “Got enough work to
do? I could use a hand with this National Education Association speech.” He got
a faint ripple of laughter. “Anybody got anything for me?”

           
“We noticed Miss Scheherazade
didn’t join you on this trip, Mr. President,” one lady reporter asked.
“Everything OK between you two?”

           
“Well, according to the briefing I
got this morning, I hear some of you in the press have been saying that Monica
was mad at me because I didn’t attend the premiere of her new film,” President
Martindale said with a boyish smile. “I feel like a hunk of raw meat in the
tabloids sometimes. The truth is that Miss Scheherazade is filming this week in
Monaco
... oops, I wasn’t supposed to reveal that.
Sorry, Monica.” His mischievous grin told the reporters that he enjoyed playing
these media-public relations games. “Anything else?” “I know the country
doesn’t seem to care too much about anything else but your love life, Mr.
President,” a veteran news anchor- person chimed in, his cameraman dutifully
behind him taking pictures, “but there are reports from Reuters that
Iran
attacked a vessel and possibly an aircraft
last night in the
Gulf
of
Oman
, near the
Persian Gulf
. Any information on that?”

 
          
“No,”
the President replied. “It apparently wasn’t an American or allied ship,
because I’ve received no complaints or protests about it. Anything el—?”

 
          
“Are
you concerned that
Iran
is apparently operating this aircraft
carrier so close to the
Persian Gulf
,
and they apparently have it fully armed with very sophisticated aircraft and
missiles?”

 
          
“Lots
of nations have ships with extremely sophisticated weapons operating in or near
the
Persian Gulf
, the
United States
included,” the President replied. “The
United States
and its allies can defend themselves if
necessary, but there doesn’t seem to be a reason to be concerned. In fact, I’ve
received a very interesting proposal from the Iranian Foreign Ministry to which
we’re giving a lot of thought—a plan to remove all offensive, land-attack
warships from the
Persian
Gulf
entirely. I
don’t have any details about the idea, but it sounds intriguing, doesn’t it?”

 
          
“It
seems a bit incongruous for
Iran
to sail its carrier through the
oil-shipment lanes, and then to propose that everyone do away with such
vessels....”

 
          
“Well,
that might suggest that the carrier is nothing but a symbol of their resolve,
of their desire to be a major player in the region,” the President offered.

 
          
“So
you feel the Iranian carrier battle group is no threat?”

 
          
“Any
nuclear-powered vessel with the firepower that ship apparently has is
potentially a threat,” the President said, “but we’re prepared to deal with any
threat. However, the prospects for peace look very promising. If President
Nateq-Nouri has a proposal, I’m anxious to look at it. I like the idea of
demilitarizing the
Persian
Gulf
.”

 
          
“Even
though you didn’t go to the premiere, do you plan to see Monica’s new movie,
Mr. President?”

 
          
President
Martindale breathed a silent sigh of relief. Good, he thought, they were moving
back to the subject of his personal life again. As difficult as it was to have
his private life under the media microscope every hour of every day, the topic
of
Iran
’s growing threat in the
Middle East
was even worse. The veteran anchorperson noticed his relief and nodded
knowingly—smug bastard. When it was time for their short one-on-ones, the
subject of
Iran
was sure to come up again. “Actually, I did see
Limbo,”
the President replied with a smile. “I had my own . . .
private screening.”

 
          
There
was a conspirational “Ahhhhh!” through the press corps. “And what did you think
of the nude scene?” he was asked for the two hundredth time since the movie
opened last weekend. “Do you approve of the love of your life doing nude scenes
with Brad Pitt?” The President let loose one of his boyish, innocent-looking
grins again, and replied, “I’ll bet Mr. Pitt was asking himself the very same
thing about me.”

BARKSDALE AIR FORCE BASE,
BOSSIER CITY,
LOUISIANA
WEDNESDAY, 16 APRIL 1997
,
1412 CT

 
          
One
of the most beautiful places on earth had to be Louisiana in the springtime,
thought Air Force Lieutenant General Terrill “Earth- mover” Samson. Little
humidity, perfect temperature, cool, clean air—perfect. Too perfect for him to
be cooped up in the office all day.

 
          
The
big three-star general was having a great day. It had started with his weekly
two-mile morning jog with about one hundred senior officers and NCOs, which he
hoped would serve as a motivational fitness incentive for all base personnel.
That was followed by a breakfast meeting with local businesspersons to suggest
ways in which the Air Force could help improve and revitalize the community and
cut down on crime; a rather productive morning in the office answering mail and
reviewing paperwork; and an informal Q-and-A lunch with the students at the
current session of Eighth Air Force’s Non-Commissioned Officer Leadership
School. Now, Samson, forty-six years young with the heart of a twenty-year-old
and with a cleared-off desk and calendar, was going to goof off this afternoon
and do something he rarely had time to do these days—go flying.

 
          
Actually,
this wasn’t going to be a purely fun flight—there was little money in anyone’s
budget these days for taking a $2 million dollar jet just to punch holes in the
sky. Samson had called up the Second Bomb Wing, found a young B-52H
Stratofortress instructor copilot sitting around with nothing on the schedule,
and asked him to give him a proficiency check. Every flying-qualified officer
had to log so many hours, so many takeoffs and landings, so many instrument
approaches, etc., every quarter, and Samson was woefully behind—this was a good
day to get caught up. Scheduling had found them a plane, Samson had found his
flight suit and boots in his office closet, and the check ride was on.

 
          
Normally
rank has its privileges, and check rides for three-star generals are
“pencil-whipped” to a great extent—do a couple of landings, maybe shoot a
couple of no-brainer ILS approaches, and get signed off in just a few
minutes—but the young IP Samson had tapped wasn’t going to “pencil-whip” the
commander of the Eighth Air Force, and Samson wouldn’t stand for it even if the
IP tried. As with any check ride, the IP started Samson off with a
fifty-question emergency-procedures written test, including space to write down
all sixty-seven lines of “bold print” emergency procedures for the T-38 Talon
jet trainer, the steps that were required to be committed to memory word for
word. No one was allowed to step inside any Air Force aircraft without
demonstrating thorough knowledge of all aircraft systems. With three amused
young officers looking on, the big three-star general bellied up to the flight
planning table at base operations and got to work.

 
          
Samson
had more
combat
flying time than
total
time for all three of these young
bucks put together, and had forgotten more than they would ever know about
flying, but now he had to dig deep and pass a damned written “multiple-guess”
test. But without hesitating, Samson got down to it—no compromises, no whining,
no shortcuts.

 
          
That
was the way it had always been for him. Having risen through the ranks from
airman basic to three-star general over his thirty-year career, Samson’s entire
life had been a series of challenges and successes.

 
          
In
1968, Terrill Samson, just seventeen years old, had been a high school dropout
looking to beat the draft and avoid going to
Vietnam
and dying in the fields like many of his
Detroit
gangbanging friends. His parole officer had
told him to enlist or face a certain draft notice the minute he turned
eighteen; he’d enlisted in the Air Force simply because the Navy’s recruiting
office was in a rival gang’s neighborhood. His mother Melba cried as she signed
the enlistment papers for her youngest son, and Terrill was made to promise
that he would write. He would never even consider disappointing his mother.

 
          
Samson
had spent most of the early 1970s carrying buckets of hot tar across
griddle-hot construction sites, repairing roads and runways all over southeast
Asia in the closing years of the Vietnam War. He’d sent all but five dollars of
his monthly military paycheck home to his mother, who would write and ask him
if he was safe and if he was making anything of himself. He’d become obsessed
with finding opportunities to complete school, volunteer for a job, upgrade his
skills, or learn a new specialty, just so he could send his mother a new
certificate or document chronicling his accomplishments and proving he wasn’t wasting
his time.

 
          
Since
Terrill had no money to do much socializing, he’d spent a lot of time in the
barracks, which made him susceptible to a lot of “line-of-sight career
development.” His squadron first sergeant had ordered him to get his high
school diploma so he could raise his squadron’s education average; Samson had
dutifully complied. Another first sergeant had ordered him to reenlist so his
own recruitment figures would look good; Samson had complied again. The tall,
good-looking, hardworking, successful black soldier had soon become the Air
Force’s “poster boy” as the ideal enlisted man; he’d been promoted to staff
sergeant in record time, then received an offer to attend
Officer
Candidate
School
at Kelly Field in
San Antonio
,
Texas
. Anywhere was better than southeast Asia, he and his mother figured, so
he’d accepted. By the end of the Vietnam War, Samson had a bachelor’s degree, a
reserve commission, and an undergraduate pilot training school slot. Four years
later, as a young captain and B-52 bomber aircraft commander, he had a regular
commission and an instructor training slot; twelve years later, he’d earned his
first star as the commander of a B-IB Lancer bomber wing.

 
          
Now
Terrill “Earthmover” Samson, often mentioned in the same breath as Colin Powell
and Philip Freeman, commanded Eighth Air Force, in charge of training and
equipping all of the Air Force’s heavy and medium bomber units. He was widely
regarded as one of the most successful and intelligent officers, of any race or
background, ever to wear a uniform.

 
          
He
proved that fact again by scoring a respectable 90 on the EP test and a 100 on
the bold print test, then submitted himself to a complete review of the missed
questions by the instructor pilot, undergoing free-fire questioning until his
IP was satisfied that Samson really knew the answers. Again, no compromises.
Samson ran through a quick review of formation flying procedures with another
T-38 crew that would be flying with them that afternoon, and after a formation
briefing, a review of the “Notices to Airmen” and the weather, Samson filed a
flight plan to the practice area, suited up, and got ready to go.

 
          
Snug
in the rubber G suit secured around his waist and legs, with his backpack
parachute slung over one shoulder, and his helmet and a small canvas bag
holding approach plates, charts, and the T-38 checklist on his other, he headed
out from base ops toward the flight line, waving off the supervisor of flying,
who offered to give him a ride out to the jet—it was too beautiful a day to
waste in a smelly old runway car. He chatted with his instructor and the other
T-38 crew members on the way out to the ramp, talked about what was happening
around the world and around town and around the squadron—it wasn’t often that
regular crewdogs got to shoot the shit with a three-star general. No pressure
of rank here, no official business, no politicking, no “face time” with the
boss—just a bunch of Air Force fliers getting ready to do what they loved
doing.

 
          
Samson
had almost made it to his sleek white jet when another car pulled up alongside.
“General...”

 
          
“I
don’t need a ride, thanks,” Samson said for the sixth time in that short walk.

 
          
“Yes,
you do, sir,” the driver said. “Flash priority-red message waiting for you at
the command post.”

 
          
Just
like that, Terrill Samson’s idyllic day was over. Messages coming into the
Eighth Air Force command center all had priorities attached to them, ranging
from “routine” on up. Samson didn’t know what was exactly the highest-priority
classification, but the highest he had ever seen was a “flash red”—and that was
in 1991, when the world thought the Iraqis had launched chemical weapons at Tel
Aviv and the Israelis were getting ready to retaliate with nuclear weapons.

 
          
Samson
threw his gear into the back of the staff car, shot a salute and a “Sorry,
guys” to his crew, and hopped into the front seat. Time to get back to the real
world. . . .

 
          
“Eighth
Air Force, General Samson up.”

           
“Earthmover, Steve Shaw here,” came
the reply. General Steve Shaw, Samson’s boss, was the commander of U.S. Air
Force’s Air Combat Command, the man in charge of training and equipping all of
the Air Force’s nine hundred bombers, fighters, attack, reconnaissance, and
battlefield support aircraft and the 200,000 men and women who operated and
maintained them. “Pack your bags, you’re going TDY.”

 
          
Samson,
sitting at the commander’s desk of the Battle Staff Room at the Eighth Air
Force command post, replied immediately, “Yes, sir. I’m ready right now. I’ve
got a T-38 warmed up for me, in fact.”

 
          
“We’ve
got a C-20 with some crews and equipment that’ll pick you up out there at
Barksdale for a briefing at Whiteman.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir, I’ll be ready,” Samson said excitedly. Whiteman Air Force Base, near Knob
Noster,
Missouri
, was the home of the B-2A Spirit stealth
bomber. Although they had been used in very minor roles in other conflicts, the
B-2A bombers weren’t scheduled to go fully operational until later on in 1997.
What in hell was going on? “Anything else you can tell me, sir?”

 
          
“The
Iranians look like they’re going to try to close off the
Persian Gulf
,” Shaw said. “NSA wants a special task
force to put together a quick-response team to hit targets in
Iran
if the balloon goes up—and the President
wants bombers.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Samson said. “I’m ready to do it. Who’s heading this task force?”

 
          
“I
don’t know,” was Shaw’s cryptic response. “Top secret, NSA stuff. You’ll get
the initial briefing materials on the plane.”

 
          
“I
understand. I’m ready to go, sir,” Samson said.

 
          
“Good
luck, Earthmover,” Shaw said. “Whoever’s leading this task force, I know
they’re getting the best in the business. When it’s over, come on out to
Langley
and let me know how it went.”

 
          
“You
got it, sir,” Samson replied. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Eighth Air Force,
out.”

 
          
There
were a million things running through Terrill Samson’s mind the second he hung
up that phone. He should call his wife, tell her he’d be out of town (shit, he
thought, what a freakin’
understatement!);
he should notify his vice commander, notify the wing commanders, notify his
staff, notify... “Captain Ellis! ”

 
          
“Sir?
replied the senior controller on duty at the command post.

 
          
Samson
was heading to the door as he spoke: “Tell General An- dleman I’m on my way to
Whiteman and that he’s minding the store. Tell base ops to notify me
immediately when the C-20 calls Shreveport Approach inbound for landing. And
tell my wife...” He paused, thinking about what he was about to do and what it
might mean. “Tell her I’ll talk to her tonight. I
will
talk to her tonight.”