The meeting degenerated into charge and countercharge, with both sides claiming victory at the end of the argument.
Really, it had been less a diplomatic effort than a barroom brawl.
As Wexler strode back toward her office, her entourage of aides and advisors trailing behind her, she thought back to the photograph the Cuban representative had flashed, and felt her anger grow again. There was a name for that sort of conduct, the media surprising military forces during the course of their operations in search of a story.
They called it the First Amendment. She called it treason.
TEN
The Joint Chiefs of Staff gathered in the Tank, the strategic planning area into which every intelligence and tactical source provided direct feed. From the Tank, they could watch live satellite transmissions, tap into the database of any ship via high-frequency link, talk to the most remote two-man patrol in Bosnia.
The furnishings, luxurious by Department of Defense standards, couldn’t disguise the tension hanging in the air.
People moved quickly, rapping out orders and requests for information, studying green automated tactical displays, trying to anticipate what one piece of information their bosses would want. As the chiefs convened, the operational pace crescendoed to near panic.
The chiefs gathered at the round table, helped themselves to coffee or tea or their beverage of choice. A small refrigerator remained fully stocked. They exchanged pleasantries, trying to ward off the inevitable.
Even if they’d been inclined to, the fact that this was an election year made it almost impossible for the President to fail to act. Their only option at this point was providing the President with a range of alternatives the military thought they could win.
“Sunday. Why does it always happen on the weekend?” the Air Force chief of staff grumbled. He stirred two sugars into the heavy mug of black coffee. “What, no latte again?”
“I don’t suppose we could persuade all of our enemies to plan their operations around our schedule?” The chief of naval operations was generally the most irreverent of the group, capable of finding a wry or sardonic side to almost every issue. Had his advice not always been so damnably well thought out, the others would have been tempted to ignore him.
“The Cubans aren’t our enemies,” the chairman snapped.
“Could’ve fooled that pilot,” the CNO responded.
“And this isn’t a war, is it?” said the Army chief of staff, finally speaking up. “Could get a lot of people killed, though, couldn’t it?
If we have to go in on the land, that is.”
“Look, let’s put the bickering aside for a minute,” the chairman ordered. “We can posture all we want to, but you know we’re going in.
We have to.” He scanned the table, saw the agreement on each face reluctant on the Army’s part, eager on the Air Force’s, and decidedly neutral on the Navy’s.
“Any guidance from the boss?” Navy asked.
The chairman shook his head. “He wants options. That’s what we’ll give him. Right now, I’m leaning toward using the Arsenal ship.” The expressions on the faces around him mirrored the political maneuvering that continually went on between all the services. The Air Force chief of staff looked as if he was about to speak, to start lobbying for a significant role for Air Force tactical bombers. Navy looked slightly disgruntled. The Arsenal ship had been forced down his throat over his protests that while it was a fine platform, he had better uses for the money. Like training. Like aviation fuel. Like diesel fuel to get his ships out of port and at sea, where they belonged, training and practicing for eventualities they hoped would never come. The Army simply looked envious. The lack of organic air support capable of carrying out the increasingly popular cruise missile attacks ate at him.
“Sounds like it’s been decided already to me,” the Navy grumbled.
“I’ll get my people started on a target list.”
The chairman held up a hand. “Won’t be necessary. Most of the target packages will be decided at the White House.”
“The White damn it, we can’t go backward, not on this issue.” The chief of naval operations stood abruptly.
“You know what it did to us during Vietnam. Political control of military objectives simply gets men killed. Men and women,” he amended quickly. “There’s not a one of us sitting at this table that doesn’t remember how it worked then.”
“Bothers you to be out of the loop, is that it?” the Air Force asked.
A slight smile crossed his face.
The CNO wheeled on him. “That’s not the point and you know it. If it were your forces on the line, you’d be going ballistic. But you let this start now, with this ship, and you’ll be fighting the same battle next time there’s a ground war.”
“The Navy’s always been too damned independent,” the Army shot back.
“Gentlemen!” The chairman’s voice was the cold crack of a whip. “We stand united on this. Is that clear?” All of the other chiefs bristled. No one spoke to them like that, at least within their respective organizations. No one.
“The next thing you’ll be telling me is that the President will be pushing the buttons himself,” the CNO said at last, to break the deadly silence. “Is that about it?” He looked appalled as the chairman nodded in agreement.
“The President will be here for all the major portions of the attack.
It’s the low-risk option.” Every one of his audience could translate that. It meant that with the ship shooting the missiles, there was no chance of an aircraft being downed, no possibility of an American airman being paraded through the streets of Cuba as a prisoner. During this election year, that would be completely unacceptable.
“I’ve got a two-star out there,” the CNO said. “Magruder good man.
Lots of combat experience.”
“Let’s hope we won’t need that, but it’s good to have him on-scene if we do,” the chairman said. “For now, though, you can plan on most of the major decisions being made here.”
As the meeting broke up and the men wandered back toward their respective evening offices, the CNO was grim.
Why was it that his country felt compelled to repeat major operational art lessons they’d learned in previous wars?
Couldn’t they learn? And the chairman’s easy capitulation when he knew damn it, knew better. He felt a sick anger welling up again.
Politics, the chairman’s loyalty to the man who’d approved his appointment where did you draw the line between honor and one’s career?
And as for Magruder well, he knew how he would have felt if he’d been the two-star on scene. This would have looked like a vote of no-confidence, not a political opportunity. He’d better call Magruder right away to make sure he got the news first. No telling how much damage one pissed off two-star could do during an election year.
0845 +5 GMT) The Senate Floor “It’s all set.”
Dailey looked up to see Senator Williams leaning across his desk, resting one hip casually on the corner. Behind them, a junior senator was lecturing the scattered crowd on the merits of easing restrictions on the processing of bee pollen. The only people paying attention were two bee pollen lobbyists seated in the upper tiers.
“I don’t know about this,” Senator Dailey said uneasily.
“I remember it …”
“You remember which side your bread is buttered on,” Williams said sharply. “Nothing else matters right now. You blow this, and every shipbuilder in your district is going to be screaming for your ass.