Executive Actions (47 page)

N
othing could have prepared O’Connell for what came next. A nighttime landing. He doubted if that was even the right term.
How can you land on something floating?

“It’ll be fast and hard,” warned Rupp. “Just like the hired girl likes.”

The writer tried to laugh, but couldn’t. He tightened his body, bracing himself for the shock ahead. He felt strong gusts buffet the plane and watched as the great ship in front of him heaved up, then down in the ocean’s swell.

“Just like the hired girl likes,” he whispered over and over trying to give his mind a way to relax. “Any more words of wisdom?” he managed louder.

But Rupp had no more jokes. Not right now. He had to concentrate on the signal lights ahead.

Directly in the center of the shortest runway O’Connell ever saw—no more than 200 feet—were amber and red lights. The writer looked at the gauges and heads up display in front of him and was amazed that the Super Hornet was still flying at 150 knots. And with every slight pitch one of the lights seemed to glow. When the lights appeared above a green horizontal bar in the cockpit, O’Connell noted that Rupp nosed the plane down. When it was red, he arced it up.

A Super Hornet equipped for carrier-based operation has a hook bolted to an 8-foot bar extending from the after part of the plane. This tailhook drops with the landing gear. It must catch one of four heavy steel cables across the deck, each forty feet from the next. Miss one, the plane has to hook the next. Miss them all and the pilot has barely a blink of an eye to add enough power to stay aloft.

They were seconds away from touching down on one of the most dangerous places on the earth and O’Connell wished he’d never learned to diagram a sentence.

If O’Connell was concerned about his stomach on take-off, he was in for an even greater surprise as the plane’s tailhook caught. At that precise moment, gigantic hydraulic pistons below the deck absorbed the forward energy of the speeding aircraft, letting out just enough cable to stop the Hornet safely on deck. All of this as Rupp had his plane at full throttle, just in case they missed a wire. The F/A-18F jerked to a stop, O’Connell’s restraints pulled his chest with such force that he thought he would black out and his eyes would shoot right through the cockpit window like a cartoon character. O’Connell saw a ballet of lights, like a field of lightening bugs wavering around the aircraft. Only a moment later he felt another sensation. He seemed to be floating in a vast darkness. Before he even realized it, his plane was going down on an elevator, one of four lifts.

Hardly a minute more, enlisted men and women in various colored vests were all over his plane. These were the deck crew of the nuclear powered Nimitz class aircraft carrier, USS
Carl Vinson
.

“Welcome to my second home,” a voice shouted across the noise. It was Taylor, lively and dynamic. In sharp contrast, O’Connell felt wobbly and dazed. He stood up in the cockpit and put one leg over to the ladder. After getting down, he removed his helmet and shook his head to recover his senses. It didn’t help much. “How was it, son?” he asked. “Not many civilians come in the way you did.”

“I can’t imagine many would want to,” O’Connell said laughing. “The service sucked.”

“Well, it’s better onboard. You’re on a great city.”

On a city?
mused the writer. What an odd expression, but it was true. He’d been told that the
Vinson
had everything a city of 4,500 could possibly need.

Next, Morgan Taylor saluted the ranking officer, Rear Admiral Boulder Devoucoux.

“Permission to come aboard, sir?”

“Permission granted, Mr. President. The command is yours.”

It was a formality and even though Morgan Taylor had left the service as a Commander, he now commanded all of America’s armed forces.

“Thank you, sir, but I think I’ll leave that in your able hands if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, sir. It’s an honor to have you aboard.”

“It’s good to be back.”

“Rear Admiral, I’d like you to meet Michael O’Connell. He’s our historian for this little adventure.”

Devoucoux had been advised that the reporter was accompanying the President.

“You’ll extend him every courtesy and answer his questions
by the book
.”

“Yes sir.” Devoucoux offered his hand.

“Good to meet you, Mr. O’Connell.” The career officer was pleased that Morgan Taylor had added the caveat “by the book.” He picked up on the cue immediately. It allowed him to explain ship’s operation in strictly
Popular Science
terms and nothing beyond. The reporter smiled thinking he would get more. Everyone was happy.

“Nice to meet you, sir. And about the only question I have right now is where’s the nearest bathroom.”

The president smiled to his former commanding officer. “Boulder, our guest actually has a good idea. We’ll hit the head and get on with things.” Morgan Taylor raised his hand in the air and Secret Service, which had arrived earlier, seemed to come out of nowhere. They fell into place around him.

“You’re in good hands, Mr. O’Connell. I’ll catch up with you soon.” With that Morgan Taylor moved in double time and passed the five planes that had made the trip across the Atlantic. Their wings were now folded up, like bats ready to sleep.

“Mr. O’Connell,” a young enlisted man called out. “This way. I’ll get you where you need to go.”

“Thanks. And you’re?”

“Seaman Pearlman, sir. At your service. We’ll let you get freshened up.”

O’Connell followed slowly; he didn’t have his balance yet. Pearlman noticed. “Don’t worry, sir. You’ll have your sea legs soon.” He thought better of telling him the truth.

While O’Connell was in the head, another plane landed on the deck. He heard the rumble but didn’t think to ask about it. Had he inquired, he would have been politely told it was a heavy lift CH-53 transport from the mainland. No one would have said who was onboard.

The men who did de-plane talked to no one along the way. There were only salutes. They had other things on their mind. First and foremost, the weather. Like President Taylor, O’Connell and the escorts, they’d used a short break in the storm system to land on the
Vinson
. That window was closing again.

“Where’s the president?” asked the CBS reporter at the daily White House news briefing. The city lived on rumors. A number were circulating; quietly leaked by high level staffers under instructions from Morgan Taylor’s Press Secretary, Bill Bagley; instructions he didn’t even understand.

“I have a report that the president is at Camp David with severe depression and is under medical supervision.”

That was a new one to Bagley.

“I can assure you that the president is in complete control of his faculties. He could probably hop back into a fighter and take the stick if he wanted to,” said the press secretary. “He is right where he belongs. At work.”

A young CNN reporter took up the charge. “My sources have him in secret meetings in India.”

“Not true.”

“Talking to Boeing about joining the board?” asked another.

“No.”

“Vacationing?”

“Look, a man who’s scheduled to be out of work in eight days doesn’t need a vacation now.” Bagley went on to explain what he knew to be the truth—which was very little. John Bernstein said to handle the questions directly. The president was busy and unavailable. Everything on the street was rumor, or more to the Beltway parlance, “disinformation,” partly to give the press something to write about, partly to suggest to Teddy Lodge that Morgan Taylor was isolated in his final days.

“Look, he’s not scheduled for any public appearances until the Inauguration. He’s got a great deal to do in a very short time. Next question?”

Newman’s speechwriter and Lodge’s plaything was busy at all of her jobs. All three.

Christine Slocum had an impressive grasp of words and a natural feel for the way Lodge could deliver her lines. That made her invaluable to both men. But she also provided the eyes and ears for another.

Though she only cryptically communicated via sex chatrooms, her correspondent knew exactly what to read into the messages. She conveyed mood, manner, strengths and weaknesses to her benefactor; a rich man who had provided college scholarship money when little else was available. A thoughtful businessman who flung open doors of opportunity to her that would have otherwise remained closed. In return, she wrote a little, she spied a little and she fucked a lot. She liked all three and prided herself for her talent in each area.

For Slocum, it was a game where she advanced with the winner. Slocum was already getting noticed by some members of the press corps. The twenty-five-year-old
wunderkind
from Miami was likely to head the White House speechwriting staff. Lodge even hinted it himself. Newman said it directly.

And once again Ibrahim Haddad’s patience had paid off handsomely. He had groomed the talented writer for years, always manipulating things her way. Of course, if she eloped with some undergraduate love interest, there were others with the same ability. Haddad
always
had others. But she remained a faithful prodigy and a willing associate.

As a result, Haddad now had two people to watch over Lodge. Newman controlled the politics. Slocum played with his emotions. There was no question in Haddad’s mind that Lodge had become tense over the last few months. That’s why he sent her in; that and her ability to write for him.

Haddad thanked Christine Slocum for the words she wrote in Lodge’s speeches and the words he assumed she whispered in his ears. He thanked her with a bonus in a Cayman Island bank account; money that could never be traced back to him. And he thanked her each time the press wrote another glowing article or heralded the new chief executive.

“Move over Taylor. Lodge is moving in,” trumpeted the host.
The Bennington Banner
editorialized that their favorite son would “breathe life into a government-gone-stale.” “Lodge to re-invent the role of America,” touted
The Los Angeles Times
.

Reporters everywhere were tripping over one another to score a personal interview with the president-elect, now even Fox News. And then Haddad thought for a moment.
The New York Times reporter? O’Connell. Where’s he been?
He’d get word to Slocum. Maybe it was time for her to cultivate another “friendship” on the outside.

“More unseasonably bad weather’s in store for the south-central Mediterranean. With gale force winds blowing on shore, continuing inland with downpours through Northern Libya and Tunisia.”

The CNN International weatherman didn’t delve into specifics. It meant nothing to most of the audience. But some very important people were interested in more information. Fortunately, they had their own private meteorologist.

Onboard the USS
Carl Vinson
, the CIA’s Dutch Tetreault explained why the system had stalled out. Rear Admiral Boulder Devoucoux listened. He knew the winds all too well and the dangers they brought. But he only needed a short window to open up.

Devoucoux instantly flashed on D-Day and the uncertainty Dwight Eisenhower must have felt before proceeding with the invasion of Normandy. The one thing Ike couldn’t control was the weather. Now with his own operation to launch, Devoucoux drew the parallel. General Eisenhower only waited a day.
How long will I have to?

“Come on, Tetreault, there’s got to be a break coming.”

The meteorologist handed a sheet of paper to the rear admiral that answered his question.

Devoucoux read it and passed it down the line to Colonel Langeman. “Here Slange. Get out your dramamine.”

“Fuck me!” he shouted as he read the report. No one in the chain of command took exception with his comment. They all were feeling that they’d run out of time. Most of all the president.

“Dutch, I want the bottom line,” Taylor said.

“Mr. President, we’ve got very cold upper air and steep temperature lapse rates. In turn, high atmospheric instability supports thunderstorms overshooting the tropopause. In addition, rotating storms embedded within the squall line are throwing off tornados and waterpouts.”

“In English,” insisted the president.

“Mesocyclones.”

“English!”

Tetreault had to go back to his TV weatherman days. “Ah, the squall line’s stalled and we’re right under it.”

Morgan Taylor turned away from the others. He put his hand to his forehand and stroked his hair, grabbing and holding the nap at the back of his neck. He kept his expression and immediate anger out of sight.

“Worst of it is,” continued the meteorologist, “this thing’s still intensifying. I’m waiting for the latest high resolution images from our satellite sounders. But right now I don’t see how anybody’s going anywhere.”

The president circled the room and faced everyone again. There was no sign of hopelessness on his face; only determination. “The very second,” he paused to correct himself. “No, make that the very
nanosecond
we have achieved even minimal acceptable conditions between 2200 and 0330 hours, we launch. I will not put our team in jeopardy, but we
will
go.”