“The Caribbean?” Jake Grafton echoed, his surprise evident.
“The idea is that the carrier’s aircraft can help intercept and track suspicious air and surface traffic.”
“We do that now with air force AWACS planes, sir. Nothing moves over the gulf that we don’t know about. And to put a carrier in there will mean that it will have to be diverted from someplace else, probably the Med. We’ll only have one boat in the Med.”
“I talked to CNO about it this morning,” General Land said. “Those were the points he made. All you have to do today is listen. I just thought that seeing it and hearing it firsthand would help you do the staff work to make it happen if the President orders it, which he probably will. His staff believes that the incident last night with the busload of Japanese tourists requires an immediate response. Apparently they’ve sold that to the President.”
“Yessir,” Jake Grafton said and took off his white cover for a moment to run his fingers through his thinning hair. “I don’t think a carrier in the Gulf of Mexico is going to help them grab one more pound of cocaine than we are getting now. But putting a boat down there for any extended period of time will have a negative effect on our combat capability in the Med. It’ll cut it in half.”
The aide spoke for the first time. “Sir, I understand there’s also a proposal to authorize the Air Force and Navy to shoot down planes that refuse to obey the instructions of interceptors?”
General Land nodded.
“That’s been around a while,” Jake said. “The general aviation pilots’ organizations have squealed loudly. God only knows what some doctor putting along in his Skyhawk will do when he meets an F-16 up close and personal for the first time. Cessnas and Pipers going down in flames over the Florida beaches will make great television.”
“The doctors and dentists had better find someplace else to fly,” General Land said in a tone that ended the conversation. “This drug mess just went from boiling to superheated. The administration is going to whale away with everything they can lay their hands on. Anybody that doesn’t want to be hurt had better get the hell out of the way.”
That comment seemed to capture the essence of the atmosphere at the White House. Jake stood against the wall and obeyed General Land’s order: he kept his mouth firmly shut. He listened to William C. Dorfman brief the senators and congressmen on the initiatives ordered by the President, and he watched the President explain his reasoning to the senior officials.
“Gentlemen, the American people have had enough. I’ve had enough. We’re going to put a stop to this drug business. We can’t allow it to continue.”
Senator Hiram Duquesne spoke up: “Mr. President, everyone’s mad right now, but sooner or later they’re going to sober up. I’m not about to sit silently and watch the rights of American citizens trampled by cops and soldiers on a witch hunt.”
“We’re not hunting witches, Hiram,” the President said. “We’re hunting drug smugglers and drug dealers.”
A few smiles greeted this remark, but no chuckles.
“How long is this state of emergency going to last?” Duquesne pressed. Jake Grafton had met Senator Duquesne before, a year ago when he was working on the A-12 project. Apparently Duquesne hadn’t mellowed any these past twelve months.
“I haven’t declared a state of emergency.”
“Call it what you like,” Hiram Duquesne shot back. “How long?”
“Until we get results.”
“It’s going to cost a lot of money to change the currency,” another senator pointed out. “You going to want to do it again next year?”
“I don’t know.”
“This marriage of the FBI and DEA,” said Senator Bob Cherry. “I think that’ll go over like a lead brick with Congress. The last thing this country needs is a bigger, more powerful police bureaucracy.”
“It’s efficiency I’m after.”
Bob Cherry raised his eyebrows. “You won’t get it with that move. More layers of paper pushers means less efficiency, not more. All you get when you add bureaucrats is more inertia. And a big police bureaucracy that can’t be stopped is the last thing this country need or wants.”
“I want to try it,” the President insisted.
“Good luck,” Cherry said.
“I need you on this, Bob. I’m asking for bipartisan support. I’m asking for your help.”
“Mr. President, we in Congress are getting just as much, if not more, heat about that incident last night than you are. People want to know why tourists should have to run the risk of being slaughtered in the streets just to visit the capital of this country. My office this morning was a madhouse. We had to take the phones off the hooks. But Congress is not going to be stampeded. I can promise you this: we’ll immediately look at your proposals, and those that have a chance of working we’ll approve. Speedily. Those that don’t …” He shrugged.
That evening at dinner Jake Grafton told his wife about his day.
“On television one of the commentators said the President has panicked,” Callie told him.
Jake snorted. “And last year they said he was timid. The poor devil gets it from every side.”
“Will these proposals work? Can the drug crisis be solved?”
The captain took his time answering. “There aren’t any easy solutions. There are a lot of little things that will each have some effect on the problem. But there are no easy, simple, grand solutions just lying around waiting to be discovered. None.”
“You’re saying drugs are here to stay.”
“At some level, yes. We humans have learned to live with alcohol and tobacco and prostitution — we’re going to have to learn to live with dope.”
“Even if it ruins people’s lives?” Amy asked.
Jake Grafton chewed a bite of ham while he thought about that one. “A lot of things can ruin lives. People get so fat their hearts give out. They literally eat themselves to death. Should we have a law that regulates how much you can eat?”
“Drugs are different,” Amy said.
“Indeed they are,” Callie said, and gave her husband a sidelong glance with an eyebrow ominously arched.
Jake Grafton wisely changed the subject.
Later Callie said, “Did you read that terrific article in today’s paper that Jack Yocke wrote about Cuba?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m inviting him and his girlfriend over for dinner Saturday night, if he’s back from Cuba. I’ll call him tomorrow at the paper.”
“Oh.”
“Now, Jake, don’t start that. I had him in class all semester and he is a bright young man with a lot of talent. You should take the time to get to know him.”
“Doesn’t look like I’m getting an option.”
“Now dear, you know better than that.”
“Okay, okay. Invite him over. If you think he’s a nice guy, I’m sure he is. After all, look how right you were about me.”
“Maybe you should reevaluate, Callie,” Amy said tartly, and went off to her bedroom to do her homework.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The wind was out of the northwest at fifteen or twenty knots. Small flakes of snow were driven almost horizontally in against the sage and juniper that covered the sloping sides of the arroyo. Higher up on the hillsides the pines showed a tinge of white, but the dirt road leading down the arroyo was still free from accumulation.
From a window in his living room, Henry Charon scanned the scene yet again.
The snow would accumulate as the day wore on and deepen significantly during the night. How much depended only on the amount of moisture left in the clouds coming down from the San Juans. The air was certainly cold enough. It leaked around the doorsill and the edges of the window and felt cold on his face.
Charon inserted another chunk of piñon in the wood stove. Then he went into the bedroom and got out the old .45 Colt automatic he kept in the drawer by the dresser and checked to ensure it was loaded, with a cartridge in the chamber. It was. He shoved it between his belt and the small of his back and pulled the bulky sweatshirt down so it couldn’t be seen. Then he went back into the living room.