television network. She walked two blocks, paused beneath a tree, and called the correspondent on a cell phone. “This is the Foreign Ministry’s press office, sir. We have delivered a news release to your hotel,” she said in French, cut the connection, and tossed the phone into a trash bin.
The correspondent recognized her voice, and knew this had nothing to do with the Jordanian Foreign Ministry. A confidential contact had resurfaced, one who had never given him a bad story. He hurried downstairs, retrieved the envelope, returned to his room, and dumped the contents onto his desk. After reading the statement, he watched the video.
When it was broadcast, the sedated General Middleton was finishing a smooth hop aboard a twin-engine Cessna 421 into Syria. A Land Rover hauled him on the last leg of his journey, and he slept for fourteen hours.
CHAPTER 7
GOOD DAY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. I have to brief the President in a few minutes, so let us get right to it. What’s happening with this kidnapped general?” National Security Advisor Gerald Buchanan swept his gray eyes around the White House Situation Room at nine o’clock in the morning. Every chair was occupied and staff members hovered nearby. “CIA. You start.”
John Mueller, the deputy director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency, flipped open a folder branded with a diagonal Top Secret red stripe, hunched forward in his chair, and read the cover sheet that distilled the basics. “General Bradley Middleton of the Marine Corps was abducted just outside of Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, about 0300 hours this morning, Washington time. His two Marine bodyguards, his aide, and the Saudi security team were all either killed in the explosion of the roadside bomb or executed during a follow-up attack. Witnesses saw two men take the general away over a ridge beside the highway. Tire tracks led to a nearby paved road, where they could have gone either way. Al Jazeera was broadcasting the story only a few hours later. An anonymous caller to al Jazeera, after the broadcast, claimed credit in behalf of the Holy Scimitar of Allah. The Holy Scimitar, of course, is the name of the militia of the Rebel Sheikh in Iraq. The caller said the kidnappers would cut off the general’s head unless all U.S., British, and NATO troops and citizens leave the Arabian Peninsula.” The CIA man closed the folder and pushed it away. “The demand is obviously ridiculous, so we conclude there must be some other reason or reasons.” Mueller quit speaking and crossed his arms on the big table. He had learned to keep his mouth shut when he didn’t know anything.
Buchanan glared at him and swore. “Holy Jesus Christ! I heard the same thing on CNN and Fox before I came in here. Does anyone have something that hasn’t been on live television? FBI? Talk to me.”
“We have a team working with the Saudis on forensics. Nothing conclusive yet. It’s just too early.” The FBI director also knew not to go too far with Buchanan. Answer the question and shut the hell up.
The National Security Advisor ran a palm across his neatly trimmed hair and sighed. Then he removed his rimless glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. He wanted these people to stew for a while.
“Anybody?” Buchanan snapped. “How about you, Homeland Security? NSA? DIA? Pentagon? State Department? Anything other than what al Jazeera has been showing to more than fifty million people in their part of the world? The domestic networks and cable over here are going to run it forever.”
No one wanted to challenge him. Gerald Buchanan would end a career without a second thought if he detected weakness or a lack of political loyalty, and the fuse was burning on his infamous Irish temper. He unscrewed a fountain pen with a gold nib and scribbled a note to himself, closed the pen, and folded the piece of paper. Everyone wondered if their name was on it. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am not pleased. The President will not be pleased, and our countrymen will not be pleased that after spending billions of dollars to build a global intelligence apparatus, you have once again failed. I would strongly suggest that when we gather again later today, you have some facts for me. Is that clear?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Buchanan. May I?” General Henry Turner, the four-star Marine general who was chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was not afraid of Buchanan’s bluster. He had seen civilians come and go through many administrations and had served them all to the best of his ability. Hank Turner was as close to untouchable as anyone in the room.
Gerald Buchanan detested him. Turner had almost as many advanced degrees as he, plus the general had a heroic reputation, could do more push-ups than a boot camp private, and had even penned a volume of poetry. Still, Buchanan enjoyed recalling that Turner had stood third when he graduated from Annapolis while Buchanan was first in his class at Yale the same year. And his poetry was not all that good.
It was personally satisfying to Buchanan that the highest-ranking officer in all of the military services could speak only with permission in this room. He said, “Go ahead, General. Please. I grow weary of this silence.”
“Sir, it is frankly too early for anyone to know much about what has happened to General Middleton. It will all be discovered, but it’s going to take some effort and some time. My point is that I really don’t care much about what happened
To Buchanan, the military mindset had always seemed very limiting. Good to have the uniforms around to carry out policy, but original thought was not their strong point. All those badges and ribbons meant little in the halls of real power. “And how is that going to happen? Do you have a plan?”
“With all respect, sir, at the Pentagon, we plan for almost everything, all the time. As soon as we find out where Middleton is being held, we will pull out something suitable and adjust it according to present conditions, and when we receive the authority of our civilian leadership, we will execute it.”
“So you don’t have a plan.”
“Not a detailed one, no. Of course not. But preparations are in motion. The air force has offered its assets, the navy SEAL teams are on alert, the army is spooling up Delta, and the Joint Special Operations Command is on board. We all want the same thing.”
“Well, at least that’s something that I can take into the Oval Office,” said Buchanan. “Thank you, General.” He inwardly recorded Turner’s condescending
But Turner was not quite through. “Only this, sir. General Middleton is a Marine. He’s one of us. We welcome the support of all branches of service, but we will be the ones to bring him home. I have issued an alert to MARCOM, the Marine Forces Special Operations Command at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. They are passing the word to the Marine Expeditionary Units in both the Arabian Sea and the Mediterranean. The MEUs are always on a short leash, ready to go.”
“You really believe you will be able to do it?” Buchanan raised an eyebrow. “Pull him out of hostile territory?”
“We don’t just believe it. We
“Very well, then. We meet again at noon.” Buchanan rose and left the room, annoyed with the arrogance of the Marine. Once back in his office, he dialed the number of Samuel Shafer, his deputy, whose office was across the street in the Old Executive Office Building, and asked if everyone in their shop was present for this emergency. There must be no holes in his own operation that some rival might exploit. He was told that five staff members were absent, for reasons ranging from maternity leave to scheduled days off, but the only one who was really needed was their top Middle East analyst, Lieutenant Commander Shari Towne.
“Then get her in here,” Buchanan ordered.
“Sir, she’s vacationing on a boat somewhere! Greece, I think. Maybe Italy,” exclaimed Shafer.
“I did not ask where she was! Just get her!” He slammed down the telephone, then exhaled slowly and rested both palms on his polished desk. He rubbed it, the smoothness of the shimmering old oak grain almost sensual to his touch. It had been built from the timbers of one of the navy’s first warships, and had been used in the Oval Office by President Lyndon Johnson. Buchanan allowed himself a private smile. Old LBJ. Now there was someone
