The President then turned toward Hardcastle and continued, “It’s time to put your money where your mouth is, Admiral, so I’ll just come right out and say it: I want you to head the program, Admiral. You are going to be the military liaison to the Executive Committee on Terrorism.”
Hardcastle could have fallen out of his chair in surprise. He gasped, “Excuse me, sir…?”
“I’ve got no other choice,” the President drawled simply, sounding a bit defeated. “Cazaux’s out there. Judge Wilkes is closing in on him, but until she nails him, we’ve got to act decisively. My own Cabinet is divided on the subject. I need the best in the business to head this thing, and as much as I hate to admit it, you’re the best candidate. What’d you say, Admiral? You want in?” Hardcastle glanced quickly at Scheer, Mersky, Lowe, and Wilkes: all but Wilkes stared straight ahead, emotionless. Only Wilkes seemed angry enough to spit bullets. “I need your answer, Ian. This can’t wait any longer. I need you to get together with Dr. Scheer and get the hardware moving into place.”
“Then I’m your man, Mr. President,” Hardcastle said. “I’ll start immediately.”
“Good answer,” the President said, relieved, hoping he could get the hell out of there. “I’ll announce it at this afternoon’s press conference. You’ll be under Mike Lifter, title of Special Assistant to the President for National Security. However, I’d still like all of you to report to Deputy Attorney General Lowe on all antiterrorist stuff — let her talk to me about our responses. You’ll get commensurate three- star pay, standard nondisclosure agreement, you know the drill. Happy to have you aboard, Admiral. I’ll let you, Mike, and Don Scheer get at it. Good luck.”
With that, Hardcastle had been dismissed. He rose, led his staff out with him, and was joined outside the Oval Office by National Security Advisor Michael Lifter and a military aide.
“We’ve set up a staff meeting at the Pentagon,” Lifter said. He was a tall, thin, severe-looking man with small, dark, nervous eyes and a high forehead that made him look sinister and secretive. “Secretary Scheer will meet us there' along with the Chairman. I’m sure they’ll have a videoconference set up with General Lawson of A-COM.” The Chairman, Hardcastle knew, was the popular (at least with the media, the military, and the public — less so with the President and the Cabinet) and powerful Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Philip T. Freeman. Army General Thomas Lawson was CINCACOM, Commander in Chief, U.S. Atlantic Command, the major military command charged with the defense of the “lower forty-eight” states. Hardcastle did not know Lawson; he would have chosen Air Force General Charles Skye instead — perfect name for an Air Force four-star general and former Thunderbirds demonstration-team solo pilot — who was commander of U.S. Space Command and automatically “triple-hatted” as commander of the U.S. Aerospace Defense Command and the joint U.S.-Canadian North American Air Defense Command. But it was the President’s call. “We can take my car…”
“Sir, if you don’t mind, we’ll follow you over,” Deborah Harley suddenly interjected.
Lifter looked a bit puzzled. He glanced at Harley, dismissed her with an impassive blink of his snakelike eyes, then back at Hardcastle: “I have some important matters to go over with you, Admiral.”
“Well meet you over there in the Chairman’s office, Mr. Lifter,” Harley said.
There was no ignoring her this time. Lifter nodded, swallowed, muttered a curt “Very well. One hour. The secretary has your toll passes and plates.”
As they collected their government plates and toll plaza passes from the White House Operations secretary and exited the White House, Hardcastle said, “Miss Harley, what in the hell was that about? And what in blazes did that note say?”
“It said, Admiral, that you were being set up, and they executed it perfectly,” Harley said. “You didn’t see it coming?”
“See what coming?” Sheehan asked.
“How about you, Colonel Vincenti?” Harley asked. “What did you see?”
“I saw ‘good cop, bad cop,’ ” Vincenti said. “Hate to say it, Admiral, but they played you like a fiddle.”
“Did you really think it was a good idea to head this air defense task force, Admiral?” Harley asked. “May I ask why you agreed to do it?”
“Because I can help with this situation,” Hardcastle replied. His mind’s eye was furiously replaying the sequence of events in his head, and the more he recalled, the worse he realized he looked. “Damn it, I can help with this situation. I can directly implement my plan.”
“Admiral, your plan has merit,” Harley said, “but you’re not part of this Administration. You won’t be allowed to implement your program the way you want — you’re an assistant to the National Security Advisor, and Lifter’s only an adviser, not in the military chain of command. Furthermore, you won’t be permitted to speak to the press or the public, including the Project 2000 Task Force. Under the terms of the White House Non-Disclosure Agreement, the Chief of Staff,through the director of White House communications, tells you to whom you can and cannot give statements. If you bust their guidelines— and I guarantee, if they want you to bust the rules, you will—they can throw you in prison. They’ve done it many times in the past. While you’re stuffing some congressman’s newsletters in minimum security, they’ll roast your reputation so badly you’ll be lucky to be allowed to lead a Cub Scout pack anywhere near Washington. Minority Leader Wescott, Senator Heyerdahl, even former Vice President Martindale can’t help you then. You’ve been very effectively squelched, Admiral Hardcastle, and you did it to yourself. Looks like you just canceled all your TV appearances for a while.” Harley shrugged, giving him a cheerful but tired smile. “Don’t feel bad, Admiral. The President is very good at flimflamming someone — so good, he does it to himself and his wife all the time.”
Hardcastle was tight-lipped and scowling as he emerged. from the White House, but just as their car was driven over to them at the entrance to the West Wing, he turned to Harley and said, “I may have been porked by the President, Miss Harley, but they still appointed me Special Assistant to the National Security Advisor. I want to test the boundaries of that office, and you’re going to help me do it.”
Deborah Harley’s shoulders quivered and her eyes brightened in anticipation for a moment, but then her expression turned downcast. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but I’ve got a job—”
“I don’t know exactly in what capacity you serve Kevin Martindale, Miss Harley, but one thing’s for sure — I’ve got a toe in the White House right now. I think you would serve the Vice President and the Project 2000 Task Force better if you were with me instead of spying on Martindale’s political enemies — isn’t that what you do, Miss Harley?”
Harley blushed — something Hardcastle never thought he’d see her do. “I don’t think it’s relevant to discuss—” “What’s wrong, Miss Harley? Don’t you think you can pass the White House security check?”
“Admiral, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Harley said. “I know precisely what my White House security file says — I designed it. In fact, I’ve seen the White House’s security report on you. I’ll even show it to you later on.” Hardcastle nodded — he could tell by her confident halfsmile and steady gaze that she was telling the truth. This woman was much more than a simple executive assistant— she was obviously Martindale’s chief troubleshooter, an invisible insider able to pass through the inner sanctums of the current Administration with apparent ease — definitely not someone to piss off. “Find anything interesting to you, Miss Harley?”