As the acting DCI, Butler now had the resources of the CIA at his beck and call, and the Company was very good at arranging clandestine meetings. Fortunately, the Company also knew who had to be sidestepped at all costs. Even more important, the CIA knew who could be brought in, which explained why the chief of Naval Operations was in the vehicle. But he was not a happy man.
“Look, Bernie,” the admiral protested, “this is not the way I work.”
Butler groaned inwardly. “Please bear with me, sir. But I think you’ll see why we need to keep the SecDef in the dark.”
The CNO muttered an obscenity he had learned as a midshipman that related to the sex life of mules. “You can hit Merritt with a spotlight and he’d still be operating in the dark. I’ll never understand why Maddy didn’t fire him months ago.” The driver was cleared in, and she turned into a driveway. She drove directly into an open garage. The two men waited for the door to drop behind them before getting out. “This had better be worth it,” the admiral warned as they walked inside. Two men were waiting for them.
“I believe you know Herr von Lubeck,” Butler ventured.
“Son of a bitch,” the admiral breathed. He was one of the four people in the U.S. government who “officially” knew what Herbert von Lubeck really did.
Von Lubeck was all charm and grace. “Good evening, Admiral. I believe you know my colleague.” He looked at the man standing beside him, who was the CNO’s counterpart in the German Kriegsmarine. The two admirals shook hands, old colleagues and good friends. A dark-suited aide escorted them into a comfortable library, where Mazie was waiting.
“Okay, Bernie,” the CNO said, “what’s going down?”
“Why don’t we all sit?” Mazie offered. They found comfortable spots, and Mazie came right to the point. “Germany is prepared to open a second front in the northern sector of Iraq. The plan calls for them to strike out of Turkey, drive south to Baghdad, and split the country down the middle. They have a hundred and twenty tanks with supporting units and the necessary logistical buildup in place, and they’re ready to move.”
The CNO was stunned but quickly recovered. “But what about the Turks?”
Now it was Butler’s turn. “We’ve convinced them they’re next if the UIF prevails. They want to get on board and will fall in behind as the second echelon, backing up the German advance and securing the rear.”
“Brilliant,” the CNO murmured. “Absolutely brilliant. But why is the Navy involved?”
Von Lubeck answered. “We need the offices of you two gentlemen to arrange safe-passage procedures and recognition codes so your Air Force will not attack our tanks once they invade Iraq. Later on we can rely on the conventional channels to coordinate operations.”
“The president is concerned about security,” Mazie said. “The slightest leak…I’m quite sure you understand.”
“Merritt,” the CNO muttered.
“Let’s just say,” Butler said, “that he’s not totally reliable.”
The CNO leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “But I do work for the man.”
Mazie tried to explain. “That’s why I’m here. I do speak for the president in this matter.”
“And General Wilding?” the CNO asked, concerned about the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“General Wilding,” Mazie said, “knows you’re here. If there’s a problem, we can meet with the president and the general.”
“But you’d rather not because of the potential for a leak,” the CNO said. “Personally, I think there’s more of a security problem with the Turks.”
“We’re aware of that,” Butler said. “That’s why speed is critical. We figure we’ve got seventy-two hours at the outside before the UIF gets wind of it.”
The CNO stood up. “Then we’d better get working on it. We need to get back to the Pentagon.” The German admiral joined him as they headed for the garage. Once they were safely in a car and headed back for Washington, the CNO let his true feelings show. “Playing games with our own people! A hell of a way to run a war.”
His old friend understood perfectly. “It happens when politicians believe that what is good for them is best for their country. We have the same problem.”
“So where’s von Lubeck coming from?” the CNO asked.
“I’m sure you noticed his attraction to Madam Hazelton.”
“About as obvious as a bull in rut,” the CNO allowed.
Twenty-five
The small group of officers from SEAC headquarters deplaned quickly from the Super Puma and ran for the safety of the sandbagged bunker. They were the “Young Turks,” and, to the man, they were neat, trim, well trained, and graduates of Singapore’s Armed Forces Training Institute. This was also the closest any of them had been to real combat. Pontowski was the last off the helicopter, and he ducked his head to avoid the rotor blades. He knew he had plenty of clearance, but it was a natural reaction. In the far distance he heard sporadic cannon fire.
Thank God this isn’t China, he thought, recalling his days with the American Volunteer Group in the late 1990s. In the grand scheme of things, he was caught up in a low-level conflict, nothing near the intensity of the war in the Persian Gulf. But that didn’t make it any less deadly for the participants.
Waldo and Tel were waiting for them in the regiment’s version of an ASOC — air-support operations center — which coordinated requests from Army units in contact with the enemy for close air support. Pontowski stood at the back of the small group with Waldo as Tel explained how the ASOC worked. Although Tel gave the briefing in Chinese, all the Young Turks were fluent in English. It was a nice touch the young officers appreciated. “The kid’s good,” Waldo told Pontowski. “But we need a pilot doing this.” Then, “You’re not gonna leave me here, are ya?” Like any fighter jock, the last thing Waldo wanted to be was an ALO — an air-liaison officer — directing fighters onto targets out of an ASOC.
“I’m thinking about it,” Pontowski replied.
Waldo groaned. “Thanks, Boss.” The VHF radio crackled as the flight of two Hogs from Alpha checked in. “Well, this is what they came to see,” Waldo said. Tel answered the radio call and jotted down the A-10’s time on station, ordnance, and playtime. The radio/telephone operator at a nearby table handed him a clipboard with requests for close air support from units in the field. “Time to go to work,” Waldo said. As the ALO, he would select where the A-10s would go.
Suddenly the radio operator was all activity as a new request came in. His fingers darted over the control panel, feeding the incoming call to the loudspeaker above his head. A frantic voice was yelling in Chinese. A stunned silence held the room in a tight grip as Tel ran back to the two Americans. “The PLA has broken through and captured a key railroad and highway bridge over the Sungai Muar.”
Waldo rushed to the front and quickly plotted the location on a chart. “Thirty-five miles away,” he muttered. “The next major bridge is here.”
“The MA should have blown that bridge,” one of the Young Turks said.
“But they didn’t,” Waldo replied. He looked at Pontowski, knowing what they had to do. “It’s on the main LOC, packed with refugees. Any change to the ROE?”
“Damn,” Pontowski said as the burden of command came back down. It was his rules of engagement that forbade an A-10 to strike within a kilometer of the LOC. “Give me a moment.” He had to make a decision and was rapidly running out of time.