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BOOK: W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07
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“And what is the connection with General McNab, sir?”
“My God, Naylor! General McNab commands Gray Fox and Delta Force; he’s responsible for them.”
“Mr. Secretary, I have already discussed the presence of these soldiers at Mr. Salazar’s interment with General McNab. He denies having anything to do with their being there. He also tells me that he has not been in touch with Colonel Castillo since before Mr. Salazar was murdered and Colonel Ferris kidnapped.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes, sir. I believe him.”
“Nevertheless, the President desires that General McNab retire. Is that clear to you?”
“Mr. Secretary, may I speak freely?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Secretary, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t there an implied threat in what you said before? You said that if McNab asks for immediate retirement, that ‘will be the end of it.’ The end of what, Mr. Secretary? If General McNab declines to ask to be retired, then what?”
Beiderman didn’t reply for a long moment. Then he said, “General, it is our duty to work together to get through this awkward situation.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Mr. Secretary.”
“Then I suppose the President will fire him.”
“Mr. Secretary, did you see the photographs of Mr. Roscoe Danton in that stack?”
Beiderman nodded.
“And of the President’s former press secretary, Mr. Parker?” Beiderman nodded again.
“Mr. Secretary, do you think POTUS has considered the very real possibility that if what he desires actually occurs, then it will be a front-page story in
The Washington Times-Post
and all over Wolf News? And all over all the other media, thanks to Mr. Parker?”
When Beiderman didn’t reply, Naylor went on: “Wolf News—the press generally—will have a field day with that, Mr. Secretary. ‘President Clendennen Fires Top Green Beret because Green Berets Walk Out on His Remarks at Arlington Funeral.’ ”
Beiderman looked stricken.
“Mr. Secretary, I suggest that you and I have a duty to protect the President from something like that. Both President Clendennen personally and the office of POTUS. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Are you open to suggestion, Mr. Secretary?”
Beiderman nodded.
“If you and I fly to Fort Bragg right now, Mr. Secretary, and comply with the President’s order to show McNab these photographs, and then offer him the opportunity to immediately resign—”
“The President didn’t order
me
to go to Fort Bragg, General,” Beiderman interrupted. “He ordered me to come here to give
you
those goddamn pictures and order
you
to deal with General McNab.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“You realize, Naylor, that if a story like that comes out, and since Roscoe Danton was at that goddamn party, it’s a given that it will come out, then you know who the President is going to blame.”
“Sir, apropos of nothing whatever, I’m sure you will agree that when people lose their tempers, they sometimes act irrationally.”
“What are you driving at, General?”
“I wouldn’t want to be quoted on this, sir.”
“But?”
“While I can certainly understand the President’s anger at having McNab’s people walk out on his remarks . . . there are those who might say his reaction to the insult was a bit irrational.”
“I don’t like where this conversation appears to be going, General.”
“Sir, when people . . . anyone . . . has a little time to think things over, to realize that when they were angry they did some things, said some things in the heat of anger, that they wish they hadn’t done or said.”
“Jumping to the bottom line, you’re suggesting that in a day or two the President will cool off. Okay. He probably will. So what do we do today?”
“When you arrived here, Mr. Secretary, I told you that I would comply with the President’s desires the moment General McNab returned from Afghanistan, which should be in the next few days.”
“McNab isn’t in Afghanistan.”
“He can be on his way to Afghanistan in a very few minutes.” Beiderman looked at him with his eyebrows raised.
“When you call the President, you could tell him that,” Naylor said. “That General McNab is on his way to Afghanistan.”
Secretary Beiderman considered that for a full—very long—thirty seconds, and then said, “Slide me the red phone.”
“Sir, why don’t we wait until General McNab is actually on his way to Afghanistan? That would be thirty seconds after I call him.”
Secretary Beiderman considered that for another—very long—thirty seconds. Then he said, “Make your call, General Naylor.”
Naylor picked up the headset of the red telephone and pushed one of the dozen buttons on its base.
“Put it on loudspeaker,” the secretary of Defense ordered. Naylor said, “Yes, sir.”
Damn!
he thought.
The phone was immediately answered: “McNab.”
“General Naylor, General.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Are you alone, General?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Secretary Beiderman is with me, General.”
“Yes, sir.”
“POTUS sent him here with a stack of photographs of Delta Force and Gray Fox personnel at Colonel Castillo’s party in the Mayflower after they walked out on the President’s remarks at Arlington.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Secretary Beiderman has been ordered by POTUS to order me to show them to you, General, and then inform you it is the President’s desire that you immediately request retirement, and that if you do, that will be the end of it.”
“The end of what, sir?”
Naylor hesitated, and then said, “I think it would be best if you heard this from Secretary Beiderman, General.”
Beiderman’s look of surprise—even shock—quickly turned into one of resignation—he had been had, and he knew it—and then into one of hate and loathing.
For a moment, he just sat there, and then he exhaled and leaned toward the red phone.
“General, the President seems to think you are involved in a conspiracy that will see him resign, which would put Vice President Montvale in the Oval Office.”
There was a long moment, and then General McNab said, very softly, “Mr. Secretary, would you please repeat that? I want to be absolutely sure I heard you correctly.”
My God!
Naylor thought.
McNab knew right away not only what’s going on but how to deal with it.
Thank God!
After a moment, Beiderman repeated, “General, the President seems to think you are involved in a conspiracy that will see him resign, and would put Vice President Montvale in the Oval Office.”
Another pause, and then McNab said, “And you, Mr. Secretary, do you think I have been, or that I am, involved in a coup d’état such as you describe?”
“No, of course I don’t,” Beiderman snapped. “But that’s what the President apparently believes, and that’s what we have to deal with.”
“First, Mr. Secretary,” McNab said, “let me categorically deny that I am now or ever have been involved in something like that. And with equal emphasis let me say that I have no intention of requesting retirement at this time. The President has—and for that matter, as you well know—you and General Naylor have—the right to relieve me of command of SPECOPSCOM at any time.
“But for me to resign under the circumstances you have laid out would be a tacit admission that I have been involved in a coup d’état. And that’s treason, Mr. Secretary!”
“Now, calm down, General,” the secretary of Defense said. “No one’s accusing you of treason.”
Naylor began: “General McNab—”
“Treason is a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice,” McNab interrupted him with cold anger in his voice. “I demand a court-martial!”
Naylor thought,
Please, God, McNab, don’t get carried away!
“No one’s talking about a court-martial, General McNab,” he said.
“I am!”
“General, what Secretary Beiderman and I have been talking about is that when POTUS has a chance, over a few days, to reconsider what must be honestly described as an overreaction to what happened at Arlington and the Mayflower . . .”
“An ‘overreaction’? It’s insane, that’s what it is!”
“Watch your choice of words, General,” Naylor ordered sharply. “You’re speaking of the Commander in Chief.”
“Yes, sir,” McNab said after a moment.
“As I was saying, Secretary Beiderman and I have been discussing the possibility that, after a few days, POTUS may reconsider and possibly even regret what can only be described as his loss of self-control.”
Beiderman put in: “Get out of Dodge, so to speak, for a few days. Until this thing has a chance to blow over.”
“And where should I go for a few days until this thing, this outrage, this insanity, blows over?” McNab demanded.
“If you were not at Fort Bragg, General,” Naylor said, “if you were not at Fort Bragg when Secretary Beiderman and I arrived with the packet of photographs . . .”
“Go to Afghanistan, for Christ’s sake,” Beiderman snapped. “Confer with your people there. Just be unavailable.”
After a moment McNab said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary.”
Congratulations, Mr. Secretary,
Naylor thought
. You are now a coconspirator.
The flashing LED on the red telephone stopped flashing.
“What the hell?” Beiderman demanded incredulously. “Did he hang up on us?”
Naylor held up his hand and then extended his arm and looked at his wristwatch.
Precisely sixty seconds later, he pushed a button on the red telephone. The LED began flashing.
“SPECOPSCOM,” a new voice come over the circuit. “General O’Toole speaking, sir.”
“This is General Naylor. Let me speak to General McNab, please.”
“Sir, I’m sorry. He’s not here.”
“Where is he?” Beiderman demanded.
“Sir, he’s on his way to Afghanistan.”
“As soon as you can get in touch with him, O’Toole, have him call me,” Naylor ordered.
“That will probably take about an hour, sir.”
“As soon as possible,” Naylor said, and hung up.
He met Beiderman’s eyes, and said, “Done.”
“And now O’Toole knows all about this,” Beiderman said.
“No. O’Toole’s the SPECOPSCOM deputy commander. McNab would have to tell him he was going to Afghanistan.”
“Including the circumstances?
These
circumstances?” Beiderman asked. “So what do we do now, General?”
“We wait to see what happens when POTUS gets his temper under control.”
“And if he doesn’t? If this makes him even more angry? God, Naylor, if he ever finds out what you and I just did . . .”
“If POTUS doesn’t get his irrational behavior under control, which is a possibility, I’m afraid then you and I and the other rational people around him are going to have to worry about how to protect the country from that.”
After a long moment, the secretary of Defense said very softly, “I’ve been wondering who would be the first to actually say that out loud.”
[FIVE]
El Tepual International Airport
Puerto Montt, Chile
1945 17 April 2007
 
 
As the PeruaireCargo 777 taxied down the runway toward the refrigerator warehouses, Castillo saw that there were two other Boeings on the field. Both were identical to the aircraft on which they had flown from Cozumel—all Boeing 777-200LRs, just about the last word in heavy long-haul transport aircraft.
One bore the insignia of PeruaireCargo, and the other the paint scheme of Air Bulgaria, which Castillo could not remember ever having seen before.
But I will bet my next-to-last dime that it, too, belongs to Aleksandr Pevsner—or one of his several dozen wholly owned subsidiaries.
The Air Bulgaria freighter is about to carry a load of Argentine beef and Chilean salmon to Europe.
Maybe not to—what the hell is the capital of Bulgaria?—Sofia!—but to somewhere in eastern Europe. The PeruaireCargo 777 is almost certainly about to fly a hell of a lot of the same to San Francisco. Or to Chicago. And maybe on the way home, stop by Birmingham to pick up a load of nearly frozen Alabama chickens for the German market.
Ol’ Alek seems to have a lock on the international movement of perishable foodstuffs.
And the international movement of God only knows what else that God only knows who wants moved very discreetly from hither to yon and is prepared to pay whatever it costs.
Despite his protestations that he’s absolutely through doing that sort of thing.
Where the hell is the Lear?
There were no other fixed-wing aircraft on the tarmac. Castillo had expected to see Pevsner’s Learjet 45.
The only aircraft visible besides the huge cargo jets were two Bell 206L-4 helicopters, both painted with the legend CHILEAN HELICOPTERS S.A.
They were probably used to ferry the crews here from Santiago or wherever the hell else they were whooping it up between flights.
But where the hell is Pevsner’s Lear?
“I don’t see the Lear,” Castillo said to his seatmate, who was in the process of applying lipstick, an act he found quite erotic.
They were in the small section of a dozen seats behind the bulkhead that separated them from the flight deck.
“Alek knew when we would arrive,” Sweaty said. “It will be here.”
The massive 777 stopped moving.
Max, who had spent just about all of the flight sound asleep, now awoke. He sat on his haunches and looked expectantly at the cabin door.
One of the crew came into the passenger compartment. There were seven men, all Russians, on the crew. All of them wore wings. Five of them wore the four-stripe shoulder boards of captains, and the other two the three-stripe shoulder boards of first officers.
BOOK: W. E. B. Griffin - Presidential Agent 07
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