“Correct me if I’m wrong, General, but you were the one who said we needed to strike fast if we were to have any chance of getting the president back,” said the vice president. Chief of Staff DaFina leaned back in his chair with a smug look of satisfaction and stared at the general, daring him to defy the vice president.
“Yes, sir, I did say that, but-”
“Are you having second thoughts, General? I am sure you would agree with me that this is a time for action and not indecision,” said the vice president.
“I do agree, sir, but going off half-cocked can result in the loss of not only lives on our recovery team, but also the president’s, if he is actually in that building.”
“You have doubts as to whether the president is actually there? Why didn’t you bring these to my attention earlier?” said the vice president, knowing full well why the general had not been able to communicate his concerns.
“Mr. Vice President, I tried to contact you several times, but Chief of Staff DaFina told me you were busy and that he would have you get back to me.”
Marshfield looked at DaFina. “Is this true?”
Feigning contrition, DaFina said, “Mr. Vice President, the past forty-eight hours have been absolute turmoil for all of us. If the general was having trouble getting through, I don’t know why he didn’t come to the White House to share these feelings with you in person.”
Incredulous, the general answered, “Number one, I figured if I couldn’t get him on the phone, I certainly wasn’t going to be able to get in to see him here, and number two, I had an operation to assemble.” Turning his attention back to the vice president, he continued, “Sir, even with our most sophisticated technology, the building in question has not offered even the slightest clue as to who or what might be inside.”
“And this troubles you because…?” asked the vice president.
“It troubles me because our men will be going in blind. They don’t know how many terrorists are inside or where the president is being kept, if he’s there at all.”
“Are we going to go through this again?” asked DaFina, pretending to be exasperated.
The vice president silenced DaFina with a wave of his hand. “General, do you have any information that suggests that the president is not being held at this location?”
“No, sir, but by the same token we don’t have enough to suggest that he is either. After lengthy discussion with my staff as well as Agent Harvath-”
“Agent Harvath?” asked the vice president. “Is he now a member of the Joint Special Operations Command?”
“No, sir, but his past experience in counterterrorism and JSOC coordinated operations I think more than qualifies him to-”
The vice president raised his hand, this time indicating that he wished for the general to be silent. “Agent Harvath, do you have something you wish to add to this, because I’m sure we would all be very interested to hear it, considering everything that has happened already.”
Ignoring the vice president’s sarcasm, Harvath stood as the general retook his seat. “Thank you, Mr. Vice President. I have to admit that I am in agreement with the general.”
“And why is that?”
“There are a lot of pieces in this puzzle that don’t make sense. We think we are making progress, when the truth is, the kidnappers are three steps ahead of us. They have anticipated every move we make and are ready for it. With the level of sophistication we have seen on their part, I find it suspicious that they allowed the ransom call to be traced.”
Lawlor’s head tilted almost imperceptibly to the left as he pondered the implications of what Harvath had just said.
“And you enlightened General Venrick with your wisdom?” asked the vice president.
“Everything except my opinion about the trace.” Not wanting to admit that his constant headache might be affecting his judgment, Scot offered his excuse for not having come up with this insight earlier. “It wasn’t until I arrived here that this piece of information fell into place. It just doesn’t feel right.”
“‘Doesn’t feel right’? You want me to forgo maybe the only chance we have to get the president back because it doesn’t feel right? Agent Harvath, despite your feelings, do we have any information that indicates the president is anywhere else?”
“No, sir.”
“And have you thought about what kind of situation we might be in if we pass up this chance tonight and the president is moved tomorrow to another location from which the kidnappers do not make any further phone calls that can be traced?”
“No, sir.”
“And even if the recovery team does not find the president at this location tonight, have you thought about the intelligence we might be able to gather if we are able to take into custody any operatives of the Fatah organization who might have some connection to the kidnapping?”
“No, sir,” said Harvath for the third time. He could see exactly where the vice president was going with this reasoning. It was drastically flawed, but as he was the acting commander in chief, there was no way he could be overridden, no matter how many holes there were in his plan. The deck had been stacked against Harvath and General Venrick, but it had been used to make a house of cards. It wouldn’t take much to topple it, but by that time it would be too late.
“Agent Harvath, as far as I can tell, you have not thought this mission and its consequences out in their entirety. We proceed as planned,” ordered the vice president.
Choking on a response that would only have gotten him in deeper trouble and surely thrown out of the sit room, Scot sat back down. He reached for the carafe in front of him, poured a glass of water, and popped two more Tylenols. This was going to be a very long night.
31
So far, the JSOC mission was going according to plan. The recovery team rendezvoused with a small fishing boat off the coast of Israel just after 2 A.M. The contingent of Navy SEALs had been tasked to enforce a NATO blockade in the Persian Gulf. Since speed was of the essence for this mission, code-named Rapid Return, they were the best qualified and most readily available choice for the recovery.
The dark, humid air hung over the south Lebanese coast like a wet blanket. It was stifling, yet the team members paid no attention to the heat. Their minds were focused on their assignment and the role each would need to play for it to be successful.
Back in Washington, D.C., safely tucked away in the White House sit room, Scot Harvath knew exactly what the SEALs on that small fishing boat were feeling. Out of habit, his pulse picked up and the adrenaline began to surge as a quiet communication was relayed via satellite halfway around the world through the recessed speakers of the sit room.
“Jonah, this is Ishmael. No bites. We’re headed in,” said the voice of the SEAL team leader.
“Nothing on the nets either. Hope you land a big one. Happy fishing,” came the response from the JSOC command center.
Even though General Venrick wore a headset that kept him continuously in the loop, he had been furious that the vice president had insisted he watch the operation from the sit room. The general trusted his people at JSOC command, but when it came right down to it, he was in charge and should have been there, rather than in the sit room as if it were a skybox at a Redskins game.
The general had explained the codes and call signs to Harvath as they waited for the mission to begin. With that information, Scot was able to translate the exchange he was hearing.
Harvath knew from experience that anywhere from one hundred to two hundred yards out, depending on the conditions, the team would slide over the sides of their inflatable and into the water. Unsheathing their knives, team members would rip holes in the craft, and its heavy outboard engine would pull it straight to the bottom. Before any wreckage could possibly be discovered, the team would be long gone.
