Adams had scribbled on Doyle’s note and passed it back: “And the horse you rode in on.”
Reading the reply, Doyle peeled another page off the CENTCOM notepad on his desk and scribbled for what Adams thought was a long time. The J-3’s briefing was now diving down into details no one needed to hear: “… sustained desert operations…two hundred and forty thousand tons…”
Finally, Adams discreetly opened Doyle’s second volley, “U/me, Dinner, 2100, Colombia restaurant, Ybor City, already made resev. Civvies. Meet there.” Adams chuckled, thinking what the night would be like and whether his liver was up to it.
“… Stryker armored vehicles, which will be offloaded from rollon/roll-off ships…” the J-3 droned on.
A shaft of light stabbed into the theater command center as a door was opened from the basement corridor in the rear of the complex. Adams craned his neck to see who had shown up late, because whoever that was would certainly get the CinC’s wrath now or later. “Right this way, Mr. Secretary…” a young woman from Protocol was saying. A civilian picked his way down the row to an empty seat at the CinC’s left. No one stood, and the briefing was not interrupted, until the CinC realized that his guest had shown up. “Ah, Mr. Secretary, ah, let me introduce you to Marshal Fahmi here, who…” The J-3 halted while the VIPs in the room chatted.
Adams turned to Doyle and mouthed the words, “Why is he here?”
Doyle responded with a quick note reading, “Under Secretary of Defense Ronald Kashigian = Dr. Evil.”
“Okay, okay,” the CinC said, hitting the microphone in front of his seat with his index finger, “let’s resume. General, you were saying that that fuel…” Adams felt an overwhelming wave of jet-lag fatigue and wondered how he would make it until a nine o’clock liquid dinner with Doyle. To stay awake, he stabbed his left palm with a pencil with the CENTCOM logo on it.
Climbing out of the taxi on 21st Street a little before nine o’clock, the commander of the Fifth Fleet could have been a vice president for sales, in town for a convention downtown. He was alone and in a polo shirt that revealed a paunch. Usually he traveled with aides and bodyguards. Back in the States and in civilian clothes, he could be just like anyone else, not a three-star admiral.
In the lobby, the maître d’ spotted Adams as soon as he came through the door. “Admiral, thank you for joining us. Right this way. General Doyle is already here in the Patio Room.”
Adams was trying to figure out how he had been identified by someone who had never seen him before, but the host gave him no opening to ask. “Not busy this early in the week, so some of the rooms are closed, but you’ll have a very private table just behind the Dolphin.” They entered a bright Spanish-styled courtyard with a skylight roof as he continued, “A copy of a fountain found in the ruins of Pompeii. If you’ve never had it here before, I highly recommend our paella Valencia…” Adams spotted Doyle seated, chomping on a cigar.
“I think you’re in violation of the smoking regulations, Dr. Evil, is it?” Adams kidded the trim Marine and gave him a fake punch as he sat down.
“You kiddin’ me, boy? Ybor City is the home of cigars. They used to make a quarter billion a year here. Billion. Rolled on the thighs of virgins,” Doyle said, producing a Cohiba from a leather cigar holder for Adams. “For after dinner. Smuggled from behind the lines in Cuba. You know last time we really invaded Cuba, this was where the U.S. Army massed. Rough Riders and all, here in Ybor City, where the rail line from the north stopped.”
“Illegal cigars. Now I really will have to put you on report,” Adams replied, taking the cigar. “Shall we try the paella? I hear it’s good here.”
Forty minutes later, Adams was feeling full, but the wine had given him a second wind. Suddenly, there was music, and flamenco dancers came in through three of the four doors into the Patio Room. Doyle moved his chair around to sit next to Adams, apparently so he could watch the dancers, but as the music covered their conversation, the Marine asked, “You see anything odd about this Bright Star?”
“Well, I gather it’s blowing the entire CENTCOM exercise budget for the year, plus some extra money from the Joint Chiefs,” Adams replied, watching the lead dancer. “Why?”
“Why? ’Cuz it’s like my cock, it’s real goddamn big, that’s why.” Doyle chuckled. “No, really. This exercise is too big, too unnecessary, too real.”
Adams took his eyes off the dancer for a moment and glanced at the Marine, who continued, “While you were snoozing during the briefing today, swabbie, General Ballsucker was ticking off some very interesting data. They’re bringing enough shit with them to conduct two weeks of sustained combat operations. Why the hell they doin’ that shit? You know how much it will cost to lift all of that out there?”
Adams stopped looking at the dancer altogether. “You tell me.” “I got the questions, boyo,” Doyle said, leaning in closer to Adams. “Why do we and the Gypoes need to do a combined op? We expecting Libya to come across the Sahara to steal the fuckin’ Sphinx? “Why on the double-secret-handshake map of the exercise I saw yesterday is your battle group not gonna be in the Red Sea at all and instead is fanned out like a picket line in the Indian Ocean, huh, buddy?
“Why is Dr. Evil down here for this exercise-planning conference this week instead of up in D.C. polishing the SECDEF’s shoes, or whatever he usually strokes for him? I’ll tell yah: because Dr. Evil and his friends from these think tanks believe the U.S. military are just a bunch of chess pieces that they can move around to implement their globaloney theories. They don’t understand that we chess pieces bleed, while they’re yukking it up on some bullshit Fox talk show.
“And get this: why are my friends in SEAL Team Six playing the role of the reconnaissance force in the exercise and why does the team chief have detailed maps of the coast around Jeddah and Yanbu in his room at the BOQ? Got it now, Einstein?”
Adams was trying to find his way through General Doyle’s logic. “SEAL Team Six is a national asset. It shouldn’t be in some regional exercise like this.” The admiral squinted at his old friend. “Jeddah and Yanbu are in the Red Sea, but that’s the wrong side of the Red Sea, that’s…” Now he realized what the Marine was saying. The flamenco dancers ended their number with a flourish. “Oh my God!” Adams let loose, just as the music ended.
“Jes, jes. Dey are bedy good,” a waiter replied.
After paying the check, the two flag officers walked down 7th Avenue, in civilian clothes, smoking their Cohibas. “You really think they’re going to invade Saudi Arabia? Home of the Two Holy Mosques?” Adams asked. “The Islamic world will go nuts!”
“I do. I think Secretary Conrad really thinks we can reinstall the House of Saud. They’ve had us going over the Lessons Learned from the Iraqi Occupation. Why? So we don’t make them again when we occupy Islamyah?” General Doyle asked, chomping on the cigar.
“Bobby, the Iraq occupation almost ruined the Army and Marines. It stretched them thin and it totally busted the National Guard and Reserves. Recruitment has never come back. We got seven thousand kids who are now veterans without legs or with missing eyes and we got nothin’ for it,” Adams said, feeling the anger rising in him. “I served there. So did you. I had buddies killed, and for what? Because we had a SECDEF then who didn’t think it out, had no plan, put in too few troops. You think the American people are going to stand for that again? No way.”