“Mr. President,” Mado said, “as an option, we can fly in our own vehicles and destroy them when we pull out. It’s not difficult with the C-130s.”
Cunningham gave Mado an appreciative look, he was thinking on his feet.
“Why did you make that an option?” Cagliari asked.
“Three reasons, Mr. Cagliari. First, surprise. The trucks or buses would be in place when we get the POWs out and they just drive off. Second, speed. With our own vehicles we’d have to make three, maybe four round trips. With transportation supplied it’s a one-way trip — once. Third, efficiency. It reduces the number of aircraft we’d need.”
“Okay, Mike,” the President asked, “what’s the matter with the second plan?”
“It’s a big operation using a fleet of helicopters. And we have to launch out of Iraq. I don’t like doing business with the Iraqis and it’s almost sure to be compromised. It’s too big a force to hide while we position.”
“Sir”—it was Colonel Johnson—“we can launch from another country. But that means we’ll have to refuel. The Air Force can fly in or airdrop fuel bladders at a remote site.”
Cunningham was warming up to this army colonel. “This is beginning to sound like Eagle Claw,” he grumbled, loud enough for everyone to hear. He meant the attempt in 1980 to rescue the Amer-Kan hostages out of the U.S. embassy in Tehran had failed because of helicopters. Three had mechanical problems and one had crashed when it moved into position to refuel.
“Anything else?” the President asked.
Cagliari huddled with the President, talking rapidly in a low voice. The President listened, nodded, leaned back in his chair. When his decision was made, his orders tended to erupt like a machine gun. “We go with the second plan using Delta Force and helicopters. But launch out of Turkey or Kuwait. Be ready for an execute order in thirty days. There’s a real possibility for a compromise and it seems logical that the opposition will be watching Delta Force, expecting them to mount a rescue mission. This is the type of operation they were created for. So I want the Air Force to provide a cover for Delta Force and the helicopters.”
The President pointed his pen at Cunningham. “Put a task force together using C-130s like the first plan calls for. Don’t tell anyone they’re a decoy for the real thing, make it credible. If the opposition doesn’t cotton to what you’re doing and take the bait, we’ll oblige and leak it to them.
“But”—he pointed at Burke, the DCI—“you had damn well better control the leak and clear it with me. That’s it.” And the President rose and was out of there.
Cunningham put a cigar in his mouth, the muscles in his jaw working. He would not light it until he was in the sanctity of his own office. “Mado, come with me.”
“I wanted more of that mission, Mado.” Cunningham was pacing his office. “Now we’re a goddamn Quaker cannon sitting on the sidelines with our thumbs up our ass. During WW II Patton was tapped to be one for the invasion of Normandy. It almost drove him crazy playing the decoy. I don’t like it any more than he did. But … I’m going to provide the best damn cover operation ever created and I want you to honcho it — be the joint task force commander.”
“Sir, I’d rather stay where the action is in JSOA and work with Delta Force.”
“You’re my expert for special ops and while you may be assigned to the JSOA under Leachmeyer, you’re still, I believe, in the Air Force.”
Mado nodded, pretending to go with rank. Actually he saw Cunningham as a Neanderthal blocking progress, one of the old guard that would keep the Air Force out of the twenty-first century, gung-ho to fight World War II all over again but not remotely prepared for the modern world — a world of neatly integrated commands that General Leachmeyer was going to make happen. “I’d be less than honest if I didn’t tell you my preferences, sir. But I’ll give you a fake task force that will water their eyeballs. But even though the Air Force puts a Quaker cannon together, since it has to do with special ops, command will still fall under the JSOA.”
“Mado, I know that. Just remember those are my Air Force people over there.” As he talked, a plan was taking shape in Cunningham’s mind — the President wanted a cover operation, but he was going to create a force in being — a group so good that they would have to be considered for the actual mission. But it would take the right people and some intricate maneuvering to make it happen … “You’re going to need a mission commander, someone with believability,” he said.
Mado did not hesitate. “Colonel Rupert Stansell.”
“Why him?”
“High visibility, and he’s an obvious choice. He’s the only colonel you’ve got with combat experience in the Middle East. That gives him a feel for operations that can make the difference. He’s good and won’t underestimate the competition. We’re not taking on a bunch of incompetent ragheads. And, general, he’s motivated. Revenge is a lovely thing when you want results. He’ll make it look real. Also, he’s known to the opposition, which might get them looking at him.”
“Get him here. Today.”
The security policeman rapped again on the door of Stansell’s condo — much louder the second time. When no one answered, he thought for a moment and headed for the manager’s apartment. He had seen the sign when he entered the complex. He rang the doorbell beneath the discreet sign that announced the manager lived there. The door cracked open and Barbara stuck her head and a bare shoulder around the edge.
“Ma’am, I’m Sergeant Wayne Jenkins from Luke. I’m looking for Colonel Rupert Stansell. He’s not at home and I was wondering if you might know where he is.”
“I can take a message and see that he gets it,” Barbara said.
“Ma’am, this is very important, we’ve got a message from the Pentagon and if we can’t find him really quick we’ll have to get the police involved.”
“Wait a minute, maybe I can get him.” She pushed the door closed, not latching it.
The sergeant gave the door a test shove, cracking it open about six inches. He glanced into the apartment just in time to see Barbara’s bare backside disappear into a bedroom. “Looks like a full-service condominium,” he muttered.
Barbara sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the sleeping man. She pulled the sheet down and studied his body — a smile appeared on her lips. “You had me worried last night, Colonel,” she whispered. “Turned out all you needed were the right strokes in the right places.”
She drew her legs up and leaned over him, resting on her left arm. Lightly, she traced a line from his forehead down his nose, across his lips and down his neck. Her tongue flicked and moistened her lips as she continued the line down his stomach. She repeated the trip.
As her fingers touched his lips he grabbed her wrist and held her hand. “There now, you awake?”
He groaned.
“Not too loud, lover. There’s a security cop come a-callin’ from the base. Says he’s got a message from the Pentagon.”
Stansell rolled out of bed and pulled his shorts on, hurrying to the door. Barbara followed him into the hall and leaned against the wall, not caring if the security cop saw her naked.
Jenkins stared a moment, then came to the point. “We got a telephone call from the Chief of Staff, sir. You’ve got to be at the Pentagon today. There’s an F-15 waiting on the ramp. Grab your flight suit and dress in the car, sir.”
Stansell bolted back into the bedroom, leaving the door wide open. Barbara didn’t move. He scooped up his clothes and ran for his apartment. Jenkins reached in and reluctantly closed the door. By the time the sergeant reached his patrol car, Stansell was ready, in flight suit and carrying his flying boots and shaving kit. In the car Jenkins twisted the key and hit the siren switch at the same time. “Duty can be a terrible burden,” he told the colonel, somehow maintaining a straight face.