Mission Compromised (6 page)

As he pulled into the numbered space, he noticed that the dark-blue Chrysler hadn't pulled into the gate behind him. Newman couldn't see it turn north on 17th and pull into the garage beneath the modern, red brick façade of the New Executive Office Building, just across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House.

As he entered the green-canopied West Wing entrance, the civilianclad Marine removed his raincoat and walked up to the Secret Service agent who was seated at a desk just inside the door. Before he could
even take out his White House ID, the agent said, “Dr. Harrod will see you in the Situation Room, Mr. Newman.”

Instead of going up the stairs to the National Security Advisor's office where he had been earlier in the day, Newman turned right, down a corridor past the White House Mess—“the most exclusive restaurant in Washington”—and walked up to a massive wooden door at the end of the hallway. Before he could slide his White House pass through the card reader and put his forehead up against the optical scanner, he heard the metallic click of the electronic lock being opened. Somewhere above him there was a camera he couldn't see. And at someplace he didn't know, a person he'd probably never meet already knew who
he
was—and that he was expected. It made Newman vaguely uneasy.

A cheerful young man greeted him enthusiastically as he entered. “Good afternoon, Mr. Newman. I'm Specialist Jonathan Yardley; welcome to the Situation Room. Dr. Harrod's in the conference room on the phone with the President. He'll signal us when it's time for you to go in.” Yardley gestured to two lights—one green, the other red—above a door in front of them. The red light was illuminated.

“While we're waiting, why don't I show you around?” And without waiting for an answer, the younger man started walking Newman around and introducing him to the five men and two women on duty. The facility was smaller than Newman had thought it would be, but it looked for all intents and purposes like any other headquarters operations center—except that everyone was in civilian clothes.

“This is the second watch. We have five watch sections, seven duty officers, and a senior watch officer for each. I'm the SWO for this watch. Unless there's a major crisis, we rotate the watch every eight hours. Most of us are warrant officers in the military, but some are detailed here from the CIA, NSA, State Department, FBI, Treasury,
and Department of Energy. Everyone here has clearances for every security compartment. And nearly all of us have been here for ten years or more.”

There was a quiet hum of activity. Newman noticed that the phones chirped instead of ringing, and that everyone had a computer console in a small carrel. He also saw that the phones didn't have standard dial pads; rather, the dial pad was on the computer screen. Each screen had rows of colored boxes with labels:
POTUS, FLOTUS, VPOTUS, STATE, OSD, DCI, NMCC, FBI OPS, JUSTICE, TREASURY
, and
COAST GUARD.
Newman was surprised to note that one of the boxes was labeled:
UN OPS CTR.

Yardley continued, “Every department and agency has its own watch center. We can connect with any one of them or contact them all simultaneously in the event of a crisis. Over here,” Yardley gestured to a carrel in the corner, “we're having WHCA”—he pronounced it
wha-cah
—“install a monitoring system for the watch officer who will be keeping track of you.”

“What's WHCA?” Newman asked.

“Sorry,” responded Yardley. “We get so used to the local lingo, we sometimes forget that not everybody knows it. WHCA stands for the White House Communications Agency. You never hear about it, even though more than five hundred people are assigned to it—mostly from the Air Force and Army—though there are a few Marines, I think. WHCA is responsible for all presidential communications, both secure and unclassified. They handle all of the encryption systems, make sure that the President can launch or stop a nuclear war, and generally install and maintain everything from computers to telephones to secure video links so that the President can be in touch with anyone, anywhere, anytime.”

Before Newman could ask what “keeping track” of him meant, there was an electronic
ping
and Yardley looked toward the lights over the conference room door. The green light had come on. “It looks like the National Security Advisor is ready for you now. We don't want to keep the doctor waiting, do we?”

“No, I suppose not,” Newman muttered, wanting to ask a litany of questions but knowing that they'd have to wait.

“Well, welcome aboard and good luck,” said the loquacious watch officer, holding out his hand. And then as Newman shook it, “I sure hope you'll fare better than your predecessor.”

Taken aback, Newman started to ask what had happened to his predecessor when the conference room door swung open and Jabba the Hutt bellowed, “I can't wait all day, Newman. What's going on here?”

It occurred to Newman that it was an entirely appropriate question.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Situation Room

________________________________________

The White House

Washington, D.C.

Tuesday, 29 November 1994

1510 Hours, Local

 

N
ice of you to make it, Newman,” Dr. Harrod said sarcastically. His reprimand was loud enough for the whole staff to hear it. “It might occur to you that I don't have time for you to socialize with these people—they have work to do, and so do I.” Newman's face flushed with embarrassment, and as he entered the conference room, he was aware that Yardley and all of his situation room personnel had their eyes riveted on him.

The National Security Advisor was in his shirtsleeves, his suit coat draped over one of the twenty or so chairs in the room where presidents
had been meeting with their most trusted advisors since Dwight David Eisenhower. It was, Newman observed, a very small room for so many big decisions.

As they moved into the wood-paneled conference room, Harrod closed the door behind them and said, “Those are better clothes. Now all you need is hair.” Harrod laughed at his own little joke. Newman did not.

“Sit down.” Newman sat, taking a seat across the smooth, polished mahogany table from Harrod—unaware that the Director of Central Intelligence usually occupied the chair that he had chosen during meetings of the National Security Council. On the table was a file folder with a green-bordered cover sheet. Although it was upside down from where he sat, Newman could read the bold print:

 

TOP SECRET
CODEWORD ACCESS REQUIRED
EYES ONLY FOR THE PRESIDENT

 

Harrod, still standing, looked totally unkempt. His tie had been loosened to keep from choking his fat neck, but it still ended abruptly a good four inches above his belt. The National Security Advisor's considerable paunch made the gap between the buttons on his shirt front swell into little ovals, and it seemed to Newman that they were about to pop. And despite the November weather and cool temperature in the room, Harrod's shirt was sweat-soaked beneath his arms. Lighting a cigar, he sat down, shoved several loose pages of paper into the file folder, and looked up at the Marine. “I just got off the phone with the President. He's authorized me to proceed. You are now officially the director of the Special Projects office. I'll give you a list of who can know about this assignment; it'll be short. As far as anyone else is concerned, you're a military assistant to the National Security Advisor. Understood?”

“No, Dr. Harrod, it's not understood. Nor do I understand why I was followed home and then back here by a dark-blue, late-model Chrysler with smoked-glass windows, more antennas than a cell-phone tower, and a D.C. license, ISL-355.”

“Very good, Newman. I'm glad you noticed.
I
had you followed. The men in that car will very shortly be working for you. I had you tailed for three reasons. First, to make sure that you didn't go running back to the Marines to whine about this assignment; second, it's good training for
them;
and third, to see how observant you are. You passed. They failed.”

“Exactly what is this job, Dr. Harrod?” Newman asked. There was still anger in his voice.

“Relax, Mr. Newman. This is going to take a few minutes. After I'm finished you can ask all the questions you want. Then I'll take you over to the OEOB, show you your office, and introduce you to your new colleagues.

“You may not want to be here, Newman, but you're here for a reason. Even though you only got your orders last Friday to report to the NSC, you were very carefully selected. You're here because of what happened in Mogadishu, Somalia, in October of last year.” At that, Harrod paused, for Newman reacted just the way he expected—as if he had been struck—though the Marine said nothing.

Quieter, in a whisper that he substituted for sympathy and sincerity, Harrod continued. “I know that your brother was one of those Army Rangers who were killed. I'm sorry. It never should have happened.” Harrod paused again.

Harrod had brought up images and feelings that Newman had tried to repress for more than a year. He moistened his lips but said nothing. His new boss continued. “You're here because we want to
make sure that what happened to your brother James never happens again. The President is adamant that those who did it be appropriately punished. We think that you're the right person to make sure that Mohammed Farrah Aidid never commits another atrocity and that he becomes an example to the entire world of what happens to those who kill Americans and UN peacekeepers.” Harrod waited to let his words sink in.

The Marine stared hard at the polished tabletop, struggling for control and adamant that this civilian not see his emotion. It seemed awkward to hear his brother called James. Newman knew his younger brother as Jimmy and then Jim. His brother—not quite four years his junior—had been buried in Arlington Cemetery for a little more than a year.

Peter Newman recalled those events and felt, ironically, that the man responsible for sending his only brother to his death was only one floor above, in the Oval Office. And now Newman would be working for him.

Harrod flicked the ash off his cigar and watched to see if he had wrung any emotion out of the Marine. Only a brief glistening in his eyes betrayed any feelings he'd had over the events of last year. And Newman blinked a few times more than usual. But other than that, Harrod couldn't tell whether he was getting through to the Marine or not—or even how much the Marine cared about his brother.

Harrod was going to change the subject, but the interview was interrupted by a beeping from his pager. “Excuse me, Newman. I've gotta take this call.” He went to the other end of the room and punched one of the numbers listed in the phone's speed-dial list. He droned on for several minutes, his voice just low enough for Newman not to hear. But it didn't matter. The Marine's thoughts were elsewhere.

 

 

If anything, Peter Newman was more proud of Captain James Bedford Newman, U.S. Army, West Point class of '84, than he was of his own military résumé. His brother had indeed been a Ranger, just as Harrod said. But in 1992, after serving in Desert Storm, the soft-spoken, lanky officer with the big shoulders and even bigger smile had quietly volunteered for Delta Force, the Army's elite, supersecret, counterterrorist outfit. The “Dreaded-D,” based at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, selected only the best for its ranks. After months of harsh, grueling training, during which all but 9 of the 103 soldiers in his class dropped out, Captain Jim Newman became a Delta Force team leader. And little more than a year later, he was dead—killed on the night of October 3, 1993, during the bloodiest twenty-four hours of combat that the U.S. military had experienced since the Vietnam War.

The thirty-three-year-old officer had been part of a specially organized unit comprised of more than 450 Rangers from Fort Benning, Georgia; Newman's Delta Force Squadron from Fort Bragg, North Carolina; Navy SEALs out of Norfolk, Virginia; USAF para-rescue jumpers (PJs); and airmen of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment—the “Night Stalkers.”