This took place during the Buenos Aires rush hour — actually hours, as the period started at half past four and did not slack off until eight, or thereabouts. They arrived at five past five. When Colonel Naylor presented himself at the embassy gate and said he wanted to see the Defense attaché, the Argentine Rent-A-Cop on duty announced that that official was gone for the day and he would have to return tomorrow.
Allan considered that information, and then decided that while a certain delay was what they were after, delaying fourteen hours was a bit too much of a good thing.
“In that case, I wish to speak to the duty officer,” Colonel Naylor announced.
To get through to the duty officer, Allan first had to deal with a Marine sergeant of the Embassy Guard, but finally an Air Force captain appeared. The captain was extremely reluctant to contact the Defense attaché at his residence without very good reason.
“What’s your business with the colonel, Colonel?”
Colonel Naylor had been around the military service all his life, and he knew that if he did tell the captain that he wished to send a highly classified message, the captain would almost certainly not have the authority to permit him to do so without checking with his superior, and that superior would not be the Defense attaché himself, but rather an officer, probably a major, immediately superior to the captain. And then the whole sequence would start again with the major’s superior, probably a lieutenant colonel. Et cetera.
Thus causing too much of a delay.
“Captain,” Naylor said, “you are not cleared for any knowledge of the nature of my business. Contact the Defense attaché immediately and inform him that an officer acting VOCICCENCOM demands to see him personally and now. That is an order, not a suggestion.”
The captain wasn’t sure he recognized what the acronym stood for, but did recognize an order when he heard one, and said, “Yes, sir. If the colonel will have a seat there, I will telephone Colonel Freedman.”
The captain pointed to a row of attached vinyl-upholstered chrome chairs against the wall.
Naylor did so. After five or six minutes he looked up at the wall and saw large photographs of President Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen, Vice President Charles W. Montvale, and Secretary of State Natalie Cohen smiling down at him.
He took out his CaseyBerry and punched a button.
“Yeah, Junior?” CIA Director A. Franklin Lammelle’s voice answered, after bouncing off a satellite floating twenty-seven thousand miles above the earth’s surface.
“Sir! Sir!” the Marine Guard sergeant called excitedly from behind the bulletproof glass of his station. “You can’t do that!”
“In the embassy, waiting for the attaché,” Naylor said.
“Good man! I’ll alert Natalie.”
Naylor put the CaseyBerry back in his shirt pocket.
“I can’t do what, Sergeant?”
“Use a cell phone in here.”
“This one worked just fine.”
“Sir, you’re not allowed to have a cell phone in here!”
“Why not?”
“You’re not a member of the embassy staff. I’ll have to ask you for your cell phone.”
“No.”
“Sir, I’ll have to insist.”
“Sergeant, the last I heard, sergeants can’t insist that lieutenant colonels do anything; it’s the other way around.”
“Sir, I’ll have to insist.”
“You already said that. The only way you’re going to get my cell phone, Sergeant, is to pry it from my cold dead fingers.”
As the sergeant considered that option, the situation was put on hold when the door to the plaza outside burst open and a spectacularly dressed officer entered.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
Naylor decided there was likely to be just one officer in the embassy who would be wearing the mess dress uniform of a full colonel of the USAF, and consequently this man had to be Colonel Freedman, the Defense attaché.
“Colonel, he has a cell phone and won’t give it up!” the Marine sergeant announced righteously.
“Who the hell are you?” Colonel Freedman demanded.
“Lieutenant Colonel Allan B. Naylor, Junior, sir. Are you the Defense attaché, sir?”
Naylor saw in Colonel Freedman’s eyes that the Air Force officer was aware that there was an Allan B. Naylor, Senior, and of the latter’s place in the military hierarchy.
“I’m Anthony Freedman, the Defense attaché. What can I do for you, Colonel?”
Freedman put out his hand and Naylor took it.
“Sir, I need the embassy’s communications facilities to send a Top Secret Message to Washington.”
Freedman considered that, nodded, and said, “Well, we can take care of that for you, Colonel. But just to dot all the ‘i’s… may I see your ID and your orders?”
Naylor handed him his identity card. Freedman examined it, handed it back, and then asked, “And your orders, Colonel?”
“I’m acting VOCICCENCOM, sir,” Naylor said.
That was the acronym — pronounced “Voe-Sik-Sen-Com”—for Verbal Order, Commander in Chief, Central Command. While it was in common usage around Central Command, and the Pentagon, the Office of the Defense Attaché in Buenos Aires is pretty near the foot of the military hierarchal totem pole and it was obvious from the look on Colonel Freedman’s face that he had no idea what it meant.
And equally obvious that he wasn’t going to admit that he didn’t to an Army lieutenant colonel.
“Yes, of course you are. But in the absence of written orders, Colonel, how can I know that?”
“Sir, may I suggest you call CICCENCOM at Combined Base MacDill for verification?”
CICCENCOM, pronounced Sik-Sen-Com, is the acronym for Commander in Chief, Central Command.
“Right,” Colonel Freedman said. “Sergeant, call what he said.”
“The extension is six-six-one,” Naylor said.
“Yes, sir.”
Two minutes later the sergeant reported, “Sir, they say the Sik-Sen-Sen… Sik-Sen-Com… is not available.”
“Try extension seven-seven-one, Sergeant,” Naylor suggested. “That’s the DEPCICCENCOM.”
DEPCICCENCOM, pronounced Dep-Sik-Sen-Com, is the acronym for Deputy Commander in Chief, Central Command.
Two minutes later, the sergeant reported, “I have General Albert McFadden on the line, sir. He wants to know who’s calling and how you got his personal number.”
Colonel Freedman’s face, as he reached for the telephone, which the sergeant was passing through an opening in the bulletproof glass, showed that he knew very well who the four-star Air Force general he was about to talk to was.
“Sir, this is Colonel Anthony Freedman, the Defense attaché…
“I was given this number by Lieutenant Colonel Naylor, who says you can verify he’s here acting… What the hell was it, Naylor?”
“VOCICCENCOM, sir.”
“Vok-Ick… Vodka-Ick…
“Yes, sir, General, Voe-Sik-Sen-Com. That’s it, sir.
“No, sir. Now that I think about it, I can’t imagine why a fine officer like Colonel Naylor would say something like that if it wasn’t the case.”
Colonel Freedman held out the phone to Naylor.
“The general wants to talk to you, Colonel.”
Naylor took the phone.
“Good afternoon, sir.
“Not a problem, sir. I spoke to the sheriff and the district attorney and they both assured me no one will be arrested just so long as we use chips and there’s no cash on the tables.
“Sir, I can only suggest the chaplain got carried away when he said we’re all going to go to jail.
“I really hope to be there, sir, but there’s no telling how long this job will take.