“Let’s try to keep on the subject, sir,” White said. “Namely, what do we do about Dave Luger?”
Elliott scooped up the photo and jammed it back into its envelope. “This had better be for real, Colonel, or you won’t be facing a courts-martial or a firing squad — I’ll deal with you myself, with my bare fucking hands. Dave Luger meant the world to me. I’d give everything, everything, to help him. But the mission is classified. Reopening the files could damage the careers of many individuals, from here all the way to the White House. I hope you realize the huge can of worms you’ve opened up here, Colonel.”
“Believe me, it hurts me as much as it does you, General. I need your help, not your retribution. Dave Luger is alive. If we leave him up to the ‘proper channels’ to deal with, he’ll be there forever. We have to get him out. You’ve got to—”
Suddenly the door behind him burst open. Three men, dressed in dark-blue jumpsuits, helmets with clear plastic face masks, and bulletproof vests dashed in, automatic weapons trained on Paul White’s forehead. “Hands up! Now!” Captain Hal Briggs, General Elliott’s chief of security at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, shouted.
White raised his hands. When he looked at Brad Elliott again, the three-star general had a big .45 caliber automatic pistol in his hand, aimed at White as well. “Hey, General,” White said, an amused smile on his face, “these guys are good.”
“You’re under arrest, Colonel, for revealing classified information and attempting to exchange classified information. I want him Mirandized, hooded any time he is outside a building, searched — body cavity and X-ray — booked, and held in maximum security until a full identity check has been accomplished. No phone calls, no contact with any individuals whatsoever until I authorize it. Move out.” White did not say another word as a black hood was placed over his head and he was dragged off.
“Good job, Hal,” Elliott said, sitting back down.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Sergeant Taylor. He recognized the duress code word ‘ceremony’ and called me the second you mentioned it. What was he trying to sell you?”
“An unbelievable story, Hal,” Elliott said. “An incredible story. Half of me prays it’s not true and half of me prays it is. We have some phone calls to make.”
“You gonna let me bust this guy, sir?” Briggs said enthusiastically. “It’s been a slow week and I could use the—”
“If his story doesn’t pan out, I’ll authorize a full national-security investigation and you can dismantle the guy piece by piece — with his defense counsel present, of course. But first I want to find out if what I’ve heard has any truth to it. I’ve got to ask General Curtis. He should get involved.”
“Curtis? The General Curtis? The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Curtis?”
“If what White said is true — and a lot of it seems to be irrefutable— then Curtis needs to know immediately. If this is all some big con game, then he can squash it quick and neat.”
The President of the United States, on an evening flight back to Washington, D.C., after a trip to the West Coast, had just retired for the evening into the front section of Air Force One, which was outfitted as a full luxury suite for him and the First Lady. As usual, he left his staff with another two or three hours’ work to do before the plane landed. Fortunately, Air Force One was well suited for work, with impeccable service, eighty-five phones on board, plus the assistance of no less than three operators, not to mention fax machines, word processors, and a rack of computers.
That evening flight found the White House Chief of Staff Robert “Case” Timmons, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Wilbur Curtis, and National Security Advisor George Russell, together in the staff lounge, the plush “living room” in the center of the modified Boeing 747 reserved for the President’s staff. Several soft leather chairs were arranged along the fuselage wall around a large, low coffee table, where magazines and English-language newspapers from all over the world were scattered. Aides for each Cabinet officer were nearby, taking copious notes and instructions as their superiors tossed orders to them.
In the adjacent staff/secretarial area, secretaries with Compaq laptop computers were hard at work, while several staff members shuttled between the presidential staff area and the other sections of the plane, delivering messages and retrieving memos. A steward had just brought coffee and dessert rolls from one of Air Force One’s two kitchens and had departed. The presidential staff lounge could hold twelve, but with three senior Cabinet members on-board they took the room all to themselves for the entire trip.
“The President mentioned in his speech tonight sending a verification team to inspect military bases in the Commonwealth republics to check the destruction of nuclear weapons,” Russell said to Curtis. “How soon can we get a team together?”
“I can have one ready to brief by tomorrow afternoon,” Curtis replied. He then looked at his watch and smiled sheepishly: “I mean, later on this afternoon. I’ll need State to draw up diplomatic passports, travel visas for the individual republics, arrange security, get access privileges …”
“The Commonwealth promised they’d cooperate,” George Russell said. “I’ll get a briefing from you at… what? Three?”
Curtis nodded.
“I’ll brief the Old Man at three-thirty. How does that sound, Case?” asked Russell.
“Three-thirty’s no good,” the Chief of Staff said, checking the President’s itinerary on a small electronic notebook. “I can squeeze you in at three-fifteen or it’ll have to wait till five. The President’s meeting with the Congressional leadership on the inspection at four. It’ll have to be three-fifteen.”
“Squeeze me in, then,” Russell said. “I’ll need your briefing as soon as you can get it, Wilbur.”
General Curtis nodded. “I’ll need a rep from the DCI’s office in the meeting with the inspection team,” Curtis suggested. “Any idea who that will be?”
Russell gave some names of persons in the office of the Director of Central Intelligence who were experts on the disposition of nuclear weapons in what used to be known as the Soviet Union, which was now just an amalgamation of rival states and confederations. Curtis had his aide make the calls for him from Air Force One’s communications center.
“Speaking of the DCI,” Curtis said, “there was something I wanted to ask you about, George.”
“Shoot.”
“There was a project run not too long ago that I heard about that I wanted to get an update on.”
The National Security Advisor took a sip of coffee, put a napkin on his lap, and reached for a roll. “Can you be a bit more specific?”
“Sure.” Curtis affixed Russell with a cold stare: “REDTAIL HAWK.”
Russell was reaching for a sweet roll but stopped midway. His eyes returned Curtis’s glare with one just as cold, then shifted over to Chief of Staff Timmons, who saw the sudden exchange and needed no prompting — he murmured some contrived excuse and left the room along with the aides.
After the door to Air Force One’s living room was shut, George Russell said, “All right, Wilbur, who the hell told you about that?”
“Never mind. I found out. We always find out. Now, what’s the story, George?”
“I’ll find out who leaked that to you, Wilbur. And then I’ll roast their balls on a spit.”