Sir, you plainly have not taken our last communiqué seriously. Pay attention just after midnight tonight, September 28, and you will see what we can do, and perhaps change your mind. — Hamas.
Maj. Sam McLean, a veteran infantry officer in the Second Gulf War, was instantly on full alert. He ordered someone to trace the E-mail immediately and then, checking his watch, fired in a call to the senior officer on duty in the United States Army ops area on the third floor.
Just the word Hamas, like terrorist, caused him to relay the message immediately to the CIA in Langley, Virginia, and the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland.
It was circulated to the ops-area night staff, with a copy to the Director’s Assistant, Lt. Comdr. Jimmy Ramshawe, who was still in his office, poring over photographs and signals that might betray the whereabouts of the elusive Barracuda submarine.
The Army Colonel, holding the fort at 0100 in the Pentagon, did not hesitate. He opened up the hot line to the home of the CJC and reported the message to General Scannell, word for word. Jimmy Ramshawe was already on the wire to Chevy Chase, where Admiral Morgan came out of his sleep like a Fourth of July mortar shell.
He scribbled a short note and called Tim Scannell who was still on the line to his office. By 0130, all the key players were tuned in to the new threat. General Scannell convened a meeting in the Pentagon for 0700.
Meanwhile, the tracers in the communications center had come up with a vague solution. The E-mail had originated somewhere in the Middle East. Either Damascus, Jordan, Baghdad, or possibly Kuwait. Definitely not to the west of the Red Sea, nor to the south or east of the Arabian Peninsula. The investigation was so sketchy that Major McLean relayed it only to the CIA, for possible further clarification.
By 0700, there was a pervasive sense of unease throughout the Pentagon. Word had inevitably leaked out that there was a new threat from Hamas. And it had not been specified. It could be anything, even another lunatic driving a passenger aircraft into the building. By the time the meeting began, the entire place was moving to red alert.
In the CJC’s private conference room, Admiral Morgan again chaired the meeting, and there was no one who believed that the Hamas writer was not deadly serious.
“I suppose there’s nothing on any of the nets that might throw light on the Barracuda, is there?” asked Arnold. “I mean, a possible contact anywhere in the world?”
“Nothing, sir,” replied Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe. “I’ve been up all night searching. But there’s not a damn squeak. The only item on any Naval network of any interest to anyone came from France. They’re saying the C in C of the Senegalese Navy has gone missing.”
“Probably been eaten by a fucking lion,” growled Admiral Morgan. “Anyway, we’re going to find out what these Hamas guys are up to seventeen hours from now. If nothing happens, maybe the President’s right. Maybe all of our evidence is just coincidental.”
“Not a chance, Arnie,” said Admiral Morris. “Something’s going to happen, somewhere. And you know it.”
“Then we better get the President of the United States of America off his ass, right now,” replied Arnold Morgan. “Somebody tell him we’re coming over at 0900, and he better be listening.”
8
General Tim Scannell and General Bart Boyce, accompanied by Admirals Dickson and Morris, arrived unannounced, in two Pentagon Staff cars, at the West Wing entrance to the White House. Three of them were in uniform, as instructed by the CJC. Only the retired Navy Battle Group Commander George Morris wore a formal dark gray suit.
Both Secret Service Agents on duty were somewhat uncertain whether to detain this illustrious military quartet while visitors’ badges were issued, or whether to escort them immediately to the reception area outside the Oval Office.
Like all guards, the Secret Service Agents were indoctrinated with a strict code to play every issue by the book. That meant badges. But this was different. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Supreme Allied Commander of NATO — that’s two Four-Star Generals, plus the Chief of U.S. Naval Operations, and the Director of the National Security Agency. Both agents arrived at the same conclusion. Fast. This was no time for visitors’ badges.
They escorted the four officers to the Oval Office holding area and informed the secretary precisely who was there to see the President. Within one minute, Bill Hatchard was on the scene and summoned them to his office down the corridor.
“You would like to see the President?” he asked amiably enough.
“Correct,” replied General Scannell.
“That’s going to be extremely difficult this morning,” he said. “President McBride has a very busy schedule.”
“That’s okay. You’ve got a full five minutes before we either walk into the Oval Office or instruct the Marine guards to search the place until they find him,” said General Scannell. “So hurry up.”
“Sir?” said Bill Hatchard, looking desperate. “Is this some kind of a National Emergency?”
“Find the President,” said General Scannell. “Now.”
Bill Hatchard was not an especially clever man, but he was long on native cunning. And he recognized real trouble when it reared its head. If he continued to defy four of the most senior military figures in the United States, he could very likely be out of a job by lunchtime. Quite frankly, he would not give much for the President’s chances either, if this situation was as serious as it looked. Jesus, guys like this don’t just show up en masse unless something very big is happening.
Bill Hatchard rose. “I’ll be right back with some more information,” he said quickly.
“Forget the information, soldier,” snapped General Scannell, a lifetime of sharp commands to lower ranks suddenly bubbling to the fore. “Come back with the President.”
Bill Hatchard bolted out of his office. He was back in three minutes. “The President will see you now,” he said.
“Well done, soldier,” said General Scannell. “You accomplished that with forty-five seconds to spare, before we relieved you of command.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bill Hatchard. “Please come this way.”
They walked down to the Oval Office, where President McBride awaited them. “Gentlemen,” he said, “what a nice surprise. I have ordered you some coffee. Perhaps you’d like to sit down.”
All four of them sat down in large wooden captain’s chairs, and General Scannell immediately produced a copy of the communication from Hamas.
“May we assume you have read this short letter, Mr. President?” asked the CJC.
“You may.”
“And may I inquire as to your views?”
“Of course. I have taken on board the last communication, allegedly from Hamas, in which someone wrote, one week after the fact, to reveal that he had just exploded Mount St. Helens. It now looks as if the same person may have written again, to suggest he is going to do something else, somewhere, tonight.”
“That is correct, sir,” replied General Scannell, deferring to the President’s rank as Commander in Chief of the U.S. Armed Forces. “And do you have an opinion on what, if any, action, we should take?”
“Yes, I do. Since both letters are plainly the work of a nutcase, my answer is to do nothing. In the great offices of State we can’t spend our lives chasing around in pursuit of every damn fool threat that comes our way.”
“Sir, there were in fact three communications, as you know…suggesting he blew the volcano, demanding we vacate the Middle East or he would blow another volcano in the eastern Atlantic and wreck our East Coast. And reminding us that we are ignoring him at our peril. And that tonight he will show us precisely how dangerous he is.”