Gerald Buchanan detested him. Turner had almost as many advanced degrees as he, plus the general had a heroic reputation, could do more push-ups than a boot camp private, and had even penned a volume of poetry. Still, Buchanan enjoyed recalling that Turner had stood third when he graduated from Annapolis while Buchanan was first in his class at Yale the same year. And his poetry was not all that good.
It was personally satisfying to Buchanan that the highest-ranking officer in all of the military services could speak only with permission in this room. He said, “Go ahead, General. Please. I grow weary of this silence.”
“Sir, it is frankly too early for anyone to know much about what has happened to General Middleton. It will all be discovered, but it’s going to take some effort and some time. My point is that I really don’t care much about what happened before Middleton was snatched. I am confident that the intelligence agencies represented around this table will discover that. I want to focus on getting him back as soon as possible.”
To Buchanan, the military mindset had always seemed very limiting. Good to have the uniforms around to carry out policy, but original thought was not their strong point. All those badges and ribbons meant little in the halls of real power. “And how is that going to happen? Do you have a plan?”
“With all respect, sir, at the Pentagon, we plan for almost everything, all the time. As soon as we find out where Middleton is being held, we will pull out something suitable and adjust it according to present conditions, and when we receive the authority of our civilian leadership, we will execute it.”
“So you don’t have a plan.”
“Not a detailed one, no. Of course not. But preparations are in motion. The air force has offered its assets, the navy SEAL teams are on alert, the army is spooling up Delta, and the Joint Special Operations Command is on board. We all want the same thing.”
“Well, at least that’s something that I can take into the Oval Office,” said Buchanan. “Thank you, General.” He inwardly recorded Turner’s condescending Of course not as a debt of rudeness to be repaid later.
But Turner was not quite through. “Only this, sir. General Middleton is a Marine. He’s one of us. We welcome the support of all branches of service, but we will be the ones to bring him home. I have issued an alert to MARCOM, the Marine Forces Special Operations Command at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. They are passing the word to the Marine Expeditionary Units in both the Arabian Sea and the Mediterranean. The MEUs are always on a short leash, ready to go.”
“You really believe you will be able to do it?” Buchanan raised an eyebrow. “Pull him out of hostile territory?”
“We don’t just believe it. We know we can.” The chairman did not wilt before Buchanan’s stare.
“Very well, then. We meet again at noon.” Buchanan rose and left the room, annoyed with the arrogance of the Marine. Once back in his office, he dialed the number of Samuel Shafer, his deputy, whose office was across the street in the Old Executive Office Building, and asked if everyone in their shop was present for this emergency. There must be no holes in his own operation that some rival might exploit. He was told that five staff members were absent, for reasons ranging from maternity leave to scheduled days off, but the only one who was really needed was their top Middle East analyst, Lieutenant Commander Shari Towne.
“Then get her in here,” Buchanan ordered.
“Sir, she’s vacationing on a boat somewhere! Greece, I think. Maybe Italy,” exclaimed Shafer.
“I did not ask where she was! Just get her!” He slammed down the telephone, then exhaled slowly and rested both palms on his polished desk. He rubbed it, the smoothness of the shimmering old oak grain almost sensual to his touch. It had been built from the timbers of one of the navy’s first warships, and had been used in the Oval Office by President Lyndon Johnson. Buchanan allowed himself a private smile. Old LBJ. Now there was someone who was never afraid to exercise power. He would thump men on the chest when he was talking to them to make sure they got the message, personally telephone reporters in the middle of the night to harass them, and when a Marine guard once advised Johnson that his helicopter was waiting, the President replied, “Son, they’re all my helicopters.” Maybe, Buchanan thought, some of Lyndon’s magic was still in the wood of the ancient sailing ship.
He savored the moment. There was nothing better than this, not even sex. Buchanan had controlled the emergency conference on an international crisis and, with a simple instruction, had set in motion a scramble that would ricochet throughout the U.S. government until a low-ranking naval officer was found on a boat and fetched back from half a world away. He gathered his briefing book and headed toward the Oval Office. Power. Delicious.
CHAPTER 8
SENATOR THOMAS GRAHAM Miller, chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, pushed away the remains of a seafood dinner, stood, and gave a crisp salute to the three hundred cheering veterans who had paid $1,000 each to be with him tonight, paratroopers all. He was proud to be one of them, for when he was young, he, too, had worn the distinctive shoulder patch of the 82nd Airborne Division. He could always count on his fellow vets to help fill the election coffers, but they were more than cash cows to him, just as Miller was more than just another politician to them. This was his Band of Brothers. It irritated him that the Screaming Eagles of the 101st always got the good publicity.
Miller had used his military benefits to get his college education, then a law degree, and became an aggressive prosecutor. He rode a record of achievement, impeccable behavior, and honesty to a seat in the House of Representatives for six years before he was fifty years old, then vaulted to the Senate, where he was in the middle of his third term. He still had the build of an airborne trooper, ran every morning, and was a bachelor. His wife and infant daughter had died when the birth went horribly twenty years ago, and he never remarried. The image of such a strong and handsome man also being a brokenhearted husband and father made the ladies wilt. Instead of family, Miller devoted himself to the men and women of the armed forces of the United States, even the damned 101st.
He had begun this long day in Washington, and after lunch he went down to Fort Campbell to view an afternoon jump, some five hundred troopers pouring out of the fat bellies of transport planes from five thousand feet. Miller could almost feel the familiar jerk of the parachute harness as the chutes blossomed like sky flowers and the soldiers drifted to earth. When they landed, formed up, and conducted a maneuver, he felt a tear in his eye, as if he saw himself as one of those strong youngsters who could leap out of a plane, fight, and have energy left over.
After the drop, Miller had scheduled three “political events” across the state, which meant he was grazing for campaign money, and was ending the day at this fine dinner in Louisville. He rolled out his tried-and-true stump speech for a friendly audience, bounding to the podium with gusto, smiling and saluting and waving and pointing to individuals. The senator squinted into the bright lights and made a slightly off-color soldiers’ joke to put everyone at ease. The lapel bar of a Silver Star flashed in the light, and the slight limp in his right leg silently proved that he also had been awarded a Purple Heart. He did not need notes, for he knew this speech cold.
“The armed forces of the United States are the finest the world have ever seen, just as they were when you and I wore the uniform,” he declared, and leaned close to the microphone and give the guttural fighting call of the clan: “HOOO-AH!” Although the audience had just resumed their seats after his introduction, they leaped up again in a standing ovation. It worked every time. He could have filled a bucket with checks after just that opening. But Miller had more to say, and launched into firming up their important support for his current battle.