Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (53 page)

 
          
“Bill,
there’s an article on the
Washington
Post
wire service that
mentions our discussion yesterday about the—”

 
          
“Open
line, Mr. President,” Cesare interrupted, his hand over the mouthpiece of his
phone.

 
          
“—the
aircraft incident. Know anything about it?”

 
          
“No,
sir. I certainly authorized no release about that at all.”

           
“Better get over here, Bill.”

           
“On my way, sir.”

 
          
“Ted’s
on his way too, sir. He can make some calls from his car.”

 
          
“When
I catch the sonofabitch who leaked this I’ll kick his butt out of
Washington
, out of the country ...”

 
          
Cesare,
always protective of the Boss and concerned about his blood pressure, tried to
soft-pedal the news. “It sounds a little sketchy. Maybe an imaginative reporter
heard about the B-52 crash and just kept on digging until he found—”

 
          
“There’s
no
way
any reporter could start from
a B-52 crash and end up with KGB deep-cover agents without help from this
office. We’ve got to assume Walters can’t stop the media from picking up on
this and spreading it all over the country. So what are we going to say about
it?”

 
          
“The
story is so far out,” Cesare said, “that if we deny the whole thing people will
believe us. A Russian KGB agent shooting down a B-52 bomber over
Nevada
? Who’s going to believe that?”

 
          
“Eyewitnesses.
They could have interviewed someone from Dreamland. They could confirm the fact
that the B-52 was shot down deliberately. There could be eyewitnesses to the
plane being shot down over
Mexico
or the crash in
Arizona
. There—”

 
          
The
phone rang beside Cesare. “Cesare here . . . Edward Drury? ... Hold on.” Cesare
put the phone on hold. “It’s Drury from CNN, Mr. President. He’s asking for
White House comment about a so-called KGB spy incident . . .”

 
          
So
much for keeping it out of the press, the President thought. “All right, the
comment is that the story about a KGB agent is false, and the cause of the
crash in
Nevada
is still under investigation.”

 
          
“I’d
advise against it, Mr. President,” Cesare said. “How about ‘unsubtantiated,’ or
‘rumors only’? If we say the story is false, and someone digs up some hard
evidence ...”

 
          
“All
right, all right.” A headache was already spreading from his sinuses. “The
information about a Russian agent is an unsubstantiated rumor, and the cause of
the B-52 crash under investigation by the Air Force has not yet been determined.
Any speculation would be detrimental and injurious to the personnel involved
and the best interests of the country. Got all that?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. I’ll make sure Walters gets a copy.”

 
          
“Have
Ted hold a press conference as soon as possible and get out a release. No one
on the staff goes in front of the media, except Ted, until we get together on a
statement, and Ted’s only statement will either be what we just said there or
‘No comment.’ Got that?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Cesare flipped through his notes. “Speaker Van Keller is scheduled to be
on ABC this morning. He’s the only one in on our meeting yesterday who could be
pinned down on it.”

 
          
“Better
get that statement out to him as soon as possible,” the President said. “Have
him call me or Ted so we can brief him.”

 
          
“This
could be a problem, sir,” Cesare continued, scanning his notes. “The first
fifteen minutes of the meeting with the Foreign Relations Committee was
supposed to be a photo opportunity.”

 
          
The
President shook his head in frustration. “Great. In that case we’ll keep it a
photos-only session and cut it down to five minutes.”

 
          
“Senator
Myers and the committee members might have some questions about the incident—”

 
          
“We’ll
give them what we give the press—the crash is under investigation, we have no
information on any KGB agents being involved.”

 
          
Cesare
finished writing. “One more thing, sir—the Russians. That wire story said we
weren’t going to do anything. Should we make a comment about that?”

 
          
“To
hell with them.” The President massaged his temples, then added, “They can
think what they want. If we come out with any comment directed at the Russians
we’d be admitting that they had something to do with the B-52 crash—”

 
          
The
phone rang again. “Cesare here ... Ted, what’s up? ... what?... any details?...
all right. You’re ten minutes away? All right, I’ll pass it on.”

 
          
“What
now?”

 
          
“Ted
just got off the phone with the
Post.
They’re now saying that they have a tape of the conversation between the

 
          
B-52
and the XF-34 aircraft during their engagement. The radio conversation was on a
channel called
GUARD,
an
international emergency frequency used by planes, ships . . . They have the
whole thing—including the pilot of the XF-34 saying that he’s a colonel in the
KGB. He said the guy from the
Post
even
said, ‘XF-34.’ That designation was top secret—until now.”

 
          
“Dammit
all to hell, less than twenty-four hours after our meeting and the whole
country, whole world, knows about it. All right, all right,” the President
said. “Cancel the Cabinet meeting agenda, get the NSC and CIA and have
everybody in the conference room no later than seven-thirty, briefed and ready
to discuss this, but for Christ’s sake do it
quietly
—don’t make it look like we’re circling any wagons. This is
a routine Cabinet meeting. Make sure we get tapes of any news broadcasts about
this thing.”

 
          
“We
should change the press statement,” Cesare said. “I suggest—”

 
          
“The
change is easy. The word now is ‘No comment.’ That’s it, and it goes for Ed
Drury and the networks and everybody. We’ve got to get a handle on this thing
before it gets completely away from us . . .”

 
          
Cesare
got on the phone again and while he was waiting, the President turned to him
and said, “Paul, I want General Elliott at the meeting, too. Has he left
Washington
?”

 
          
“I
believe so, sir.”

 
          
“Then
we’ll set up a secure teleconference and... no, I want him here. He had some
ideas about this DreamStar thing that I want to hear. Wherever he is, have him
back here soonest.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.” Cesare dialed the office of the military communications liaison and
issued the President’s orders, then turned back to President Taylor, who was
standing near the treadmill, staring at the news item on the big screen.

 
          
“Any
idea who leaked this, Paul?

 
          
“Well,
that news item mentions a military source.” He paused, then asked: “Do you
think it could be Elliott? Is that why you’re bringing him back to
Washington
?”

 
          
“A
guy that’s just been stripped of his command and being forced to retire can do
some very strange things, but no, not Elliott. He’s by-the-book. I want him
back in
Washington
to hear what he has to say about this
DreamStar thing. It’s been his baby.”

 
          
“Are
you considering a military response?”

 
          
“Maybe
I won’t have any choice. If we can’t get control of this leak, we may
have
to do more than just protest to the
Russians—”

 
          
The
phone rang. Cesare picked it up. “Military communications, sir,” Cesare said.
“General Elliott had made a stopover at the Air Force Aeronautical Laboratories
in
Dayton
. He can be here for the staff meeting.”

 
          
“That’s
very good of him. I can’t wait to talk to him.”

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
“This
was a deliberate information leak on someone’s part,” President Taylor said. “I
want someone’s butt, and I want it now.”

 
          
He
paused, scanning the faces of his Cabinet and senior White House staff members.
“I expect whoever did this will have the courage to come to me later and
explain why he or she felt it was necessary to reveal classified information
like this. I will not tolerate this in my staff. I’ll shit-can the lot of you,
and senior staff, if I have to.”

 
          
He
let his words linger on the wide cherry conference table for a few moments. No
one appeared ready to confess or throw themselves on the sword. He also saw a
few faces that allowed themselves to appear skeptical when he had mentioned
dismissals. But he had no choice, the President thought—someone had to get
fired over this.
Someone
had to take
a fall if for no other reason than credibility, or deniability, as in Iranscam.

 
          
“The
official word on this incident is ‘No comment,’ ” the President said. “And I
don’t mean any of that ‘Neither confirm nor deny’ stuff. I mean
‘No comment.
’ You’re not authorized to
discuss anything dealing with Dreamland, the B-52 crash, experimental aircraft
or any military or civilian personnel. Is
that
clear?” A few nodding heads. “If you have any difficulty with that order tell
me now. I won’t hold any questions against you, and I won’t think that anyone
who has a question has to be the guilty party. Speak up.”

 
          
Silence.

 
          
“All
right. If any problems come up, refer them to Ted Walters, Paul Cesare or
myself. But I want a lid on this. And I want it on tight. We’ve got news about
the Summer Olympics and the elections to take the media pressure off this
incident, and that’s what I want to happen.”

 
          
The
President turned to General Kane. “Update on that DreamStar aircraft, General?”

 
          
“Very
little, Mr. President,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs told him. “Increase in
message traffic on the Soviet satellite-net out of Sebaco Airbase near
Managua
. We haven’t been able to decode it yet but
our analysts believe this reinforces our estimation that DreamStar is at
Sebaco.”

 
          
“How
long would it take them to take that aircraft apart, General?”

 
          
Kane
was anxious to get out of the sudden glare of attention and have the spotlight
focus on the principal of this incident. He said, “I can’t give you an accurate
answer, Mr. President.” He turned to General Bradley Elliott sitting beside
him. “Brad?”

 
          
“It’s
hard to say, Mr. President.” All eyes were on Elliott, but not because they
were waiting to hear what he said—they all believed he was the one who had
leaked the information on DreamStar to the press in the first place. “If they
wanted to, they could have DreamStar in pieces in hours—it could already be
crated up and ready to ship. But I don’t think they would just hack it up. The
XF-34 is the most advanced aircraft in the world. The Soviets will want it
intact.”