The dean of the press corps, Peter Whiteside from the Affiliated,Broadcasting System, sat quietly in the first row, waiting. White-side’s dislike of the President was well-known.
“Jean,” the President pointed to the back row at the stylishly dressed older lady from Savannah, Georgia, starting the press conference.
Predictable, Cagliari thought, he likes Jean Ramsey.
“Mr. President, there’s a growing concern about the buy-out of many U.S. corporations by foreign interests. Many are fearful that the wealth producing capability of our country is falling under the control of overseas investors. How do you intend to address this problem?”
The President was well-prepared for this and subsequent questions, and then he recognized Peter Whiteside with a “Pete.” It had been decided to avoid recognizing Peter Whiteside and only allow him the privilege reserved to the dean of the press corps of ending the press conference with the traditional, “Thank you, Mr. President.” The Chief must be feeling very confident, the National Security Advisor thought. The microphone boom was carried down front and put in front of the reporter. “Mr. President, during your election campaign you said, and I quote, ‘I will never trade arms or money for hostages nor will I engage in negotiations that could bring discredit on the United States.’ Reliable sources report that your representative is sitting at a negotiations table right now in Geneva bargaining for the release of the two hundred and eighty hostages captured by the Iranians after our defeat in the Persian Gulf. Can you tell us if progress has been made in these negotiations, and I have a follow-up.”
“Pete, that sounded more like a political statement, but I’ll answer it. First, the Iranians are holding two hundred and eighty-two prisoners of war. They are not hostages. And yes, I am pursuing negotiations at Geneva for their release. We have reached a critical juncture, and to discuss negotiations in public could well compromise the progress we’ve made.”
“Mr. President, this is not my follow up, but is it true that Secretary of State Cyrus Piccard is the negotiator?” Whiteside’s heavy eyebrows seemed to knit together.
“I have nothing more for you on that.”
Whiteside shouted his last question, interrupting the next reporter, loud enough for the boom mike to pick up. “Sir, are you trying to outbid a Libyan offer to buy the hostages from Iran for a million dollars each?”
The President fixed Whiteside with an icy stare. “Pete, you need to check your sources.”
“End it,” Cagliari growled into the small microphone attached to his lapel that linked him to the press secretary. Where the hell does Whiteside get his information? It was partly true. The Secretary of State was trying to convince the Iranians to reject the Libyan offer relayed through a third party. Well, at least the President had sidestepped the question.
The man holding the boom mike made sure he understood his directions from the press secretary, walked back to Jean Ramsey and spoke to her as he held the mike up to her. “Thank you, Mr. President,” she said in a loud voice, ending the press conference.
Whiteside literally spun around, angry-faced, while the President waved at the reporters and retreated up the red carpet of the main hallway. Cagliari made his way through a crush of reporters and slipped through the door leading to the Green Room. He hurried after the President.
The President’s chief of staff, Andy Wollard, was waiting for him in the hall outside the Oval Office. “The Chief is pissed,” he said, announcing the obvious.
Cagliari followed him into the Oval Office, where the President was sitting at his desk.
“Sit down, Mike, get comfortable. This is going to be a long one.” His voice was flat.
“That was a bad question from Whiteside,” Cagliari said quickly.
“There’re no bad questions, only bad answers. Besides, it’s true, the Libyans are trying to buy the POWs. We needed secrecy and time to bring the Iranians around. I’d say we’ve lost both of those now.”
Cagliari braced himself as his Chief lit a cigar; a habit he had forsworn months ago. He puffed once and stubbed it out.
“Filthy habit,” he said. “Andy,”—he gestured at his chief of staff—“get the Secretary of Defense, the Director of Central Intelligence and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs in here. Now.” The intense precision of his voice propelled Andy Wollard out of the office.
“Mike, if the negotiations fail, and now it seems they will, I want the POWs rescued.”
CHAPTER 3
General Lawrence Cunningham’s driver drove directly from the general’s residence to the River Entrance of the Pentagon — the Joint Chiefs of Staff entrance. The driver had timed the Saturday morning traffic, and Cunningham had plenty of time to walk the thirty yards through the almost deserted corridor to reach the command section in E-ring. He wasn’t worried about being late to the hastily called meeting — there would have to be an all-out emergency for it to start without him. He didn’t look at the portraits of former chairmen of the JCS that lined the wall. It was a group he would never join.
His aide, Colonel Richard Stevens, was waiting for him outside the Tank, the conference room where the Joint Chiefs met. The Tank was opposite room 3E880, the Secretary of Defense’s office. Stevens had just come from the Joint Special Operations Agency around the corner in Corridor Eight. The close proximity of Special Ops to the command section signified its importance. Stevens held the door of the conference room open for the general. “The meeting has been changed to the Command Center and delayed until 8:30,” Stevens said. “I was just told. We need a secure place to talk.”
They entered the large room. A conference table surrounded by soft leather chairs filled the center. The general sat down in the one reserved for him — the Air Force Chief of Staff. Since the room was vacant, Stevens sat in the chair next to him. Normally he would have taken one of the office chairs that lined the wall.
“Sir, I talked to General Mado in Special Ops. The President has ordered a task force to rescue the POWs if negotiations fail.”
The general focused on the opposite wall, absorbing the news. The POWs were etched in Cunningham’s conscience. They were, after all, his people, left behind when the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing had been extracted out of its base at Ras Assanya on the Persian Gulf.
The President had ordered the Air Force to deploy the 45th into the Gulf to support the United Arab Command in an attempt to block an invasion of Kuwait and Saudi Arabia through Iraq by the latest revolutionary group running Iran. And the 45th had done its job. The situation was stabilizing when Mid-East politics raised its head and a face-saving gesture was needed to induce the Iranians to the negotiating table. What looked like a symbolic attack on Ras Assanya to prove the Iranians were still a force to be reckoned with turned into a full scale battle. The base was in danger of being overrun before the U.S. Navy could get its ships back into the Gulf. The wing commander of the 45th, Colonel Anthony (“Muddy”) Waters, had thrown his F-4s at an oncoming Iranian invasion fleet crossing the Gulf and fought a rear-guard action while he evacuated his wing out of Ras Assanya.
But the cost had been high. Over three hundred men and women had been killed, another five hundred wounded and sixty-seven F-4s destroyed. Waters had been killed before he could save the people he could not get out in time.
It was left to Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Stansell to surrender Ras Assanya and march three hundred men and one woman into a POW cage. Only two men had avoided capture, dragging Stansell with them, and seventeen had died in captivity.