The President indicated his agreement, then shifted his attention to the admiral commanding the center. He ordered him to begin their stock-taking with the traditional appraisal of the military situation and the options open to the U.S. armed forces.
The Admiral stepped back to the speaker’s stand. Eastman could not suppress a smile. Even at a moment like this, the Admiral moved automatically into his Pentagon “briefer’s stance,” feet a rigid six inches apart, left hand in the small of his back, his right wielding the absolute end in briefer’s sex, a collapsible aluminum pointer with a glowing light on its tip with which he once again reviewed the Soviet’s military posture. Nothing had changed. Noting that, Caspar Weinberger, the Secretary of Defense, intervened.
“Mr. President. I would suggest our first action should be to alert the Soviets to what has happened. However strained our relations are, I think that in this we can count on their help in bringing Qaddafi to ground. Furthermore, they should be made aware that any military moves we make are not being directed against them.
The President agreed. “Open up the Red Line,” he commanded Eastman, “and inform the Soviets I’d like to speak with the Chairman.”
“Sir,” Bob Fundseth, the Deputy Secretary of State, said, “I think it’s also essential we coordinate with our allies any actions we take and keep them informed of this at the highest level. I’d like authorization to get off ‘Eyes Only’ messages to Mrs. Thatcher, Helmut Schmidt and, above all, President Giscard. We’ve got to assume the source of Qaddafi’s plutonium for the atomic trigger of that bomb was his French reactor. The French may be able to turn up information for us on the people Qaddafi has involved in this that will help the Bureau run them down.”
The President gave his approval, then ordered the Admiral to resume his briefing. This time a series of bright-red lights on the semidarkened screen indicated the positions of all the ships of the Sixth Fleet, most of them gathered off Crete on an anti-submarine-warfare exercise. They represented the U.S. forces closest to Libya, and, the Admiral told the assembly, they could be ordered to start southwest immediately.
Harry Fuller, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, broke into his briefing.
“Mr. President, I think there’s one point that needs to be clarified right away. There is no viable military solution to this crisis. Sure, we can destroy Libya. Instantly. But that’s not going to give us any guarantee whatsoever that his bomb-if it’s in New York — won’t explode. And that, in my judgment, precludes our taking any military action against Qaddafi for the time being.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with that,” the President noted grimly. “What do you recommend we do, then?”
“Every move we make,” the Admiral declared in a voice that boomed through the room like a Navy klaxon sounding general quarters, “has got to be designed to remind Qaddafi of the potential consequences of his action.
He’s got to be kept aware every hour, every minute, every second of this damned crisis that we can thermonuclearize him in the blink of an eye. Let him live, eat and breathe that and see how he likes it.”
The Admiral waved a hand at the red lights flashing on the screen. “I agree we should send the Sixth Fleet hell for leather for the Libyan coast. If they’ve got any liberty parties ashore, they’ll just have to leave them on the beach. Once they get there, I’d put them right up against his coastline where his radar’s sure to pick them up. Run a high-altitude aerial screen up and down the coastline from the carriers and tell the pilots to talk in the clear so he’s constantly reminded they’re carrying enough missiles to turn that goddamn country of his into an instant ruin.” A dour smile appeared on the Admiral’s face. “The deployment of force in a situation like this is designed to alter your enemy’s perception of his actions. Maybe this will alter his.”
“Mr. President.” There it was again, that rasping drawl of Crandell’s.
“You’re not going to like what I’m going to say, but I’m going to say it anyway. Destroy Qaddafi. Right now.”
The Chief Executive gave his Energy Secretary a look of ill-concealed exasperation. It did nothing to staunch the flow of his unsolicited advice.
“The great mistake we made in Iran was not acting the very first day they took those hostages. The whole world would have understood us if we had. We waited and what happened? Everybody was holding us by the coattails. `Don’t do anything rash. Think about our oil. Think about the Russians.’ “
“Mr. Crandell, we’re not talking about fifty hostages in an embassy.” The President almost spat the words at his Energy Secretary. Despite the placid surface he turned to the public, he was, in private, a man of considerable temper. “We’re talking about five million people and New York City.”
“We’re talking about this country, Mr. President, and a man who’s declared war on us. We’ve got to show him and everybody else on this globe that there’s a limit beyond which we aren’t going to be pushed. Mark my words, if you don’t respond to this man, challenge right now, tell him he’s got five minutes to tell you where that bomb’s hidden or he and his country are dead”-Crandell was waving a pudgy finger across the table=`then before this night is over you’ll be ready to betray this nation’s friends to satisfy a blackmailer.”
“Crandell.” The President had paled under his efforts to rein in his temper. “When I want military advice from you I’ll call for it. I’m not going to put the lives of five million of our people at risk until I’ve exhausted every possible avenue of saving them and this world from an unspeakable catastrophe.”
“By talking, Mr. President, and once you’ve started talking you’ll start compromising. Everybody always does.”
The President turned angrily away from his Energy Secretary. To lose his temper, whatever the provocation, in front of his advisers at this moment would be a disaster.
Crandell looked at him, slowly shaking his head. Just like that it was a nuclear shot and want to know what we’ve face he thinks it’s raining.
At the far end of the table, Bennington had just picked up his telephone.
The CIA head listened for a moment. “Excuse me, sir, but it looks like we’ve got another problem on our hands.”
Every eye in the room turned on the New Englander. “Mossad’s just got onto the Agency. They picked up the explosion on their seismographs. They’re very suspicious that it was a nuclear shot and want to know what we’ve got on it.”
“Christ!” someone groaned from the end of the table. “If they find out what Qaddafi’s done, they’ll take him out on their own and we may lose New York.”
The President frowned. It had been almost inevitable that the Israelis would pick up the shock waves. As long as they didn’t spot the fallout, though, they’d have doubts, and none of the fallout was heading their way.
Right now what he needed was time, time to get the planning in order, time to get a grip on the problem before them.
“Stall,” be ordered Bennington. “Tell them it looks like an earthquake.
Tell them we’re checking it out and we’ll keep them informed.”
On the wall opposite the President, the bank of clocks showed it was 12:30
A.M., 7:30 in Jerusalem and Tripoli. They.had thirty-eight and a half hours left, and every minute of them had to be made to count.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “let’s try to define the areas we’ve got to address ourselves to in order of their importance. First in New York: what do we do about it?”