“Our laws, however, do specifically address the matter. Laws were broken, and — Director Landau will back me up on this — their choice of targets and methodology was wrong. Not because it wouldn’t work, or because Qaddafi doesn’t shoulder some of the blame for the state of terrorist activities, but because its impact and results are going to be fruitless. Even detrimental.”
“Herb?” the president asked, seeking an explanation.
“It’s obvious, Mr. President. We knew from the start that Qaddafi’s motivation to undertake this act is vengeance. My predecessors failed to realize that their brilliant plan, however deniable it might have been, had a lag time for full effect. Qaddafi had time to figure it out, and time to set this all up. A more immediate resolution of his activities would have been more appropriate.”
“Assassination in the classical sense.” The president rubbed the furrows on his brow.
Meyerson’s head shook. “There’s a hell of a difference between a flat-out assassination, by gun, knife, poison, or whatever, and a retaliatory strike to punish. We can’t just kill every head of state that supports terrorism. Hell, there would be few Middle East governments left if we’d done that.”
“You missed the full point, Drew,” Bud pointed out. “The method was wrong because it allowed a response. The target was also wrong.”
“I thought you agreed that Qaddafi was culpable?”
“Yes, Mr. President — culpable. But not fully responsible. The reality of any war on terrorism, because it’s an undeclared conflict, is that we can’t take the easy way out and go after the backers. There will always be more where they came from. We’re learning that in spades with the drug cartels now that our policies and interdictions have some meat and are hurting them. The same applies here. We have to go after the idea men and the foot soldiers. We have to send a message that just because you call yourself a freedom fighter, that doesn’t mean you’re immune from retribution. And I emphasize the word retribution. It’s a scary word, one that I’d hope every would-be terrorist would think about.”
“So you’re suggesting that we hit only those terrorists who’ve pulled a trigger?” Meyerson still couldn’t grasp the whole picture. “How the hell are we supposed to identify them if they haven’t done anything? There are a hell of a lot of first timers in this game. Kids, women, old folks — the whole gamut of society. How do you expect our people — whichever ones you’d charge with the responsibility to carry out this policy — how would you expect them to predict who was going to be a terrorist before they actually were?”
Bud had the answer ready. “Guilt by affiliation and profession.”
The president looked perplexed, and the secretary of defense was obviously incredulous.
“Bud. Are you hearing yourself? I mean, listen to what you just said. It goes against our own legal definitions of guilt supposition. Guilt by association is not—”
“Again”—Bud held up his hand—“you didn’t hear me. Not guilt by association — guilt by affiliation. There’s a big difference. If you go around saying that you are affiliated with a known group of murderers, and that you are going to follow their lead and kill Americans because they’re Americans, then by God you better believe that they deserve the label of guilty, long before they get behind the trigger.
“It’s just a more defined form of what we are ready to do with our fleet and our bombers. Ninety percent of those freedom fighters in the targeted training camps have never fired a shot at an American, much less even looked at one. But we’re still going to blast them to their maker, am I right? Well, if that’s not guilt by affiliation and profession, then I don’t know what is.”
The ending of Bud’s soliloquy hit home. It was precisely what they had been planning to do, only it was sure to stir further resentment elsewhere in the Middle East. And would it send a message other than that America had the biggest guns in town? It rang back to Teddy Roosevelt’s speak softly and carry a big stick. The stick was no question, but the words were thunderous.
“So you think we should forgo the strike and concentrate on quieter means?”
“Within the law, Mr. President. Following the guidelines for covert action.”
“There are still laws against what you are proposing,” Meyerson commented. The wind seemed to be out of his opposition.
“Again, not entirely. There are laws that allow personnel of government agencies to use necessary force to protect civilian lives. You can look it up. I have.”
Obviously, the president thought.
The phone rang, and Landau picked it up. “It’s Secretary Coventry, Mr. President.”
He took the receiver and listened for only half a minute before handing it to Meyerson. “The secretary has informed me that the plane will be refueled very soon.”
It was approaching decision time, and now the president had a second, and more difficult decision to make.
“What do you think, Bart?” It was their first open, unheard question in many hours.
Hendrickson glanced back. The door was shut. “There’s enough noise from the engines. He won’t hear.”
The head terrorist had left them unattended, unexpectedly and without notice. It was their chance for some real information.
Buzz nodded. “Do it. Hurry.”
“Four-Two-Two heavy to any United States aircraft; come in.”
There was a short pause of static, then the reply. “Four-Two-Two, what is your situation?”
Hendrickson could sense the worry in the caller’s voice. “Don’t worry. The head guy left us alone. He’s the killer, but I don’t know his real whole name. Just his first: Mohammed.”
“Right, Four-Two-Two. We have good IDs on your friends. Now listen carefully. You were just about to hear from us. Help is there, at the airport, and they’re going to join you real soon. Do you understand?”
Hendrickson looked to his first officer and mouthed the word what? “A rescue? But how are…never mind. Go on.”
“All right. You’re gonna play a big part in this. How’s your acting?”
Huh?
Without waiting for an audible reply the caller went on, explaining the plan in just under a minute. “You’ve gotta deliver some kind of diversion and keep Mr. Big in the cockpit as long as possible. Something believable. Can you handle it?”
The pilots were still trying to swallow the idea of what was going to happen. “Yeah. That’s a roger, but are you sure about this?”
“Army says it’ll work, and I hear they get things right sometimes. Hey. They’re good. They’ll get you out of this.”
Right. Okay, I guess I’ve got to believe this. The captain realized he’d forgotten something. “Air Force, if this works we’re going to need a hell of a long runway.”
“Your brakes are gone, then. We monitored your engine and flap trouble. Hell of a job flying there, Four-Two-Two. Okay, we’ll get that figured out, and good luck on your takeoff. Weather informs me that you’ve got a twenty-five-knot surface wind coming straight down that runway you came in on if you go out the reciprocal.”
That might not be enough, but it would definitely help. “Thanks again, Air Force.” Hendrickson hoped it would be enough. It was time for some curiosity satisfaction. “Air Force — what the hell is weighing us down?”
Again, a pause preceded a terse reply. “Four-Two-Two, you don’t want to know.”