Cunningham wanted revenge, and his people back.
“Get Mado in here.” Major General Simon Mado was the ranking Air Force member of the Joint Special Operations Agency, the JSOA, which fell under the command of Army General Charles J. Leachmeyer. Mado was the youngest major general in the Air Force, earning his second star for his forty-third birthday. He was also a Rhodes scholar and B-52 pilot. To the people who worked for him, he was a fast-burner who used people for fuel.
“It may be a few minutes. The JSOA is bouncing off the walls. They’re getting ready for the 8:30 meeting.”
Cunningham shot a look at his aide.
“I’ll get him, sir.”
Two minutes later Simon Mado was sitting in the same seat Stevens had vacated. The two-star general looked like a recruiting poster; tall, well-built, square-jawed, blond hair, stern blue eyes. The works. He came to the point. “General Leachmeyer says the President will be at the meeting and is rehearsing a briefing on the JSOA’s plan for rescuing the POWs.”
Cunningham jammed his ever-present cigar into his mouth. “The President is coming here? Unusual. What’s in the plan for the Air Force?”
“Very little, sir, only rear echelon support. It’s going to be an all-Army show with Black Hawk helicopters and Delta Force.”
“Dammit, those are my people over there. Get the word to Leachmeyer that I want in on the action.”
“Sir, JSOA does have another plan for using Air Force C-130s but it’s rough and undeveloped—”
“I want it presented to the President with Leachmeyer’s plan.” “I’ll see what I can do.” Mado said, rising from his chair.
At 8:30 the President walked into the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon and took a place on the command mezzanine at the back. Normally he would have sat in the Command and Authority Room, the glass-enclosed room to the right. He was flanked by Robert “Bobby” Burke, Director of Central Intelligence, and Michael Cagliari, the National Security Advisor. He looked at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Terrence Scovill. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Terry.”
“Mr. President, I’m going to turn this over to General Leachmeyer, head of JSOA.”
The President nodded. The Joint Special Operations Agency had been created to unify the response of the elite units of the U.S. armed forces — the units that would carry out any rescue operation.
Leachmeyer mounted the low stage at the head of the room and stood in front of the huge computer-generated situation maps. The center map displayed a portion of the Middle East centered on Kermanshah, a small city in western Iran. “Sir, I’d like to start out with a look at our latest intelligence and then show you the two plans we’re working on. General Mado will cover the intelligence situation and present our first plan.”
The President sank back into his chair. It was going to be a standard military dog-and-pony show. He endured it because it seemed to work and besides, Leachmeyer was one of his poker-playing buddies.
Mado took the stage and glanced at Cunningham, his way of saying he had done his best. He used an electric pointer to draw a circle around the center of the screen. “Intelligence confirms that the POWs are located in a prison on the outskirts of Kermanshah.” He pointed to the city in the Zagros mountains of western Iran located about halfway between the Persian Gulf and the capital of Tehran.
“How good is this information, general?” Admiral Scovill asked.
“Solid as we can get.” Mado flicked the button of the remote control in the handle of the pointer. An enhanced infrared high-resolution photo flashed on the screen. “This was taken Thursday night by a Stealth reconnaissance flight. The POWs were lined up in ranks during the night.” Mado pointed to the assembled ranks of men standing in the courtyard of a large prison-like compound. “We suspect they were made to stand outside as a form of punishment. We were able to get a head count-281. Two independent operatives confirm the number and report cases of brutal treatment.”
The President was leaning forward. “And how reliable are the operatives?”
“Very,” Bobby Burke, the DCI, said. “They’re both our people. There’s one POW unaccounted for — Captain Mary Lynn Hauser.”
“How are you going to get them out?” The President was looking at Mado.
“Our first plan stresses speed and surprise,” Mado said. “We launch C-130s out of Turkey and ingress through the tri-border region of Turkey, Iran and Iraq.” His pointer traced the route. “We paradrop Delta Force into the compound and at this airfield.” He pointed to an unused airstrip three miles northeast of the compound. “Delta Force frees the POWs and secures the airfield. The C-130s land and we transport the POWs to the waiting aircraft.”
Cunningham split his attention, listening to Mado go over the details of the plan and concentrating on the President’s reaction. The man wasn’t telegraphing a thing. Frustrated, Cunningham looked around the room for other reactions. Michael Cagliari and Admiral Scovill were just listening attentively. But then, Mado was probably the best briefer and public speaker in the Pentagon. The DCI, Bobby Burke, twiddled a pen and fidgeted in his chair. What an incompetent asshole, Cunningham thought. He couldn’t stand the man and didn’t trust him. Leachmeyer was smiling at the army colonel who would present the second plan. Charlie knows something, Cunningham decided.
“Any questions, sir?” Mado said, finishing.
The President shook his head. “But don’t go away, Simon. Okay, Charlie, who’s next?”
“Sir, I’d like to introduce Colonel Sam Johnson, commander of Delta Force,” Leachmeyer said.
“Another golden mouth?”
“Hell no, Mr. President.” Leachmeyer smiled. “Few people can pitch like Simon. I just thought you’d rather hear the second plan from the man who will actually have to go in and do it.”
Cunningham’s jaw tightened — Charlie Leachmeyer was scoring points for his plan.
The burly colonel who stood up was six feet tall, moved with an agile grace. His massive hands made the pointer he picked up look somehow inadequate. Visibly corded muscles ran down his thick neck.
Cunningham hoped the man would be a cretin, hard lines and no brains. He was disappointed. The colonel’s briefing was as short and cogent as Mado’s. Johnson’s army plan was simple: a massive helicopter assault mounted out of Iraq. The timing, tactics, communications and logistics were well thought out. There was little for the Air Force and nothing for the Navy — an Army show. Cunningham had to allow that the plan had merit, but also a flaw.
“Well, gentlemen,” the President said when the colonel had finished, “I’m encouraged.” He turned to his National Security Advisor. “What do you think, Mike?”
“Either one could work,” Mike Cagliari said. “I do see drawbacks to both, though. For example, the first one needs support inside Iran to provide vehicles for moving the POWs to the C-130s—”
“Bobby”—the President turned to his Director of Central Intelligence—“do you have operatives inside Iran who can do that?”
The DCI stopped fidgeting and calmed down. “We have operatives inside Iran, and yes, they can do that. But”—he stared straight at the President—“that type of action qualifies as a covert operation and we can only do that with the approval of the Congressional intelligence committees. Politics, as you know, sir, is alive and well in those committees. Since the Senate committee is controlled by the other party, that almost guarantees a leak to the press. I’m not willing to put my operatives at risk.”
Only the Army colonel did not know the name of the Senator’s aide who would leak the operation to the press.