Not necessarily, Brannigan said. My detachment will be here to look after your things. And also to meet Captain Jihad and his men at noon day after tommorow.
I will have to clear it with my superiors, Bouchier said.
Right now this is the official operational area of a mission the United States Navy is calling Rolling Thunder, Brannigan said. I'm ordering you to evacuate to Shelor Field. My authority is that I am the commanding officer here. Besides, the UN is not known for any real sense of security.
Bouchier shrugged. In that case, I will follow your orders, Monsieur le Lieutenant.
CHAD Murchison and Penny Brubaker enjoyed a quick coupling, removing just enough clothing to perform the act. When the two young people rearranged themselves and stepped out of the tent, they immediately noticed near-frantic activity going on in the camp. Her three roomies were hurrying in their direction. Ach! Erika Maanchen said. We were afraid we would have to break in on you.
What's going on? Penny asked, alarmed.
We are leaving here right away, Josefina Vargas said. We are to pack one bag and be ready to go when they call us to get on trucks. The Americans are going to take us to their airfield to stay. Then they are coming back here. I think there will be a big battle with the bad soldiers in the armored cars.
Penny turned to speak to Chad, but he was already running over to join the detachment. At that instant, the young woman realized there was only one way she could have him for her own.
She had to get him out of the SEALs.
Chapter 6
WASHINGTON, D.C.
STATE DEPARTMENT
9 APRIL
0830 HOURS
CARL Joplin, PhD, impatiently checked his watch, noting he had a half hour minimum to wait. The window to appear for the appointment that morning was 0900 to 0910 hours. Although much of his work was done in the rambling, ambiguous world of diplomatic dealings, he still liked at least a bit of punctuality and predictability. Having a window of even just ten minutes irritated him. Joplin preferred a set time for every bit of business. Now the diplomat sat in the leather office chair behind his desk, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited.
This brilliant African-American Undersecretary's specialty in the State Department was to participate in informal negotiations and agreements between the United States and foreign nations. These unique sessions were clandestine, sensitive, and extremely consequential. They mostly dealt with issues that both sides wished to keep secret from their populations. For example, America might wish to inquire into information another country had gleaned from a person of interest through torture. Or perhaps a foreign head of government who had been taking a very loud and public stand against a particular American policy might want to cut a deal with the U.S. regarding another issue. In order to gain on the one, he would have to make concessions on the other. Therefore, he was willing to give in on certain points that would enrage his citizenry if they found out. An example would be guaranteeing no demand on trade imbalances or tariffs in exchange for the release of frozen assets in U.S. banks. Such goings-on required great diplomatic skill. And Dr. Joplin was the best at this game of two-faced diplomacy. All of his polite encounters ended to the USA's advantage, yet also pleased his foreign counterparts on the other side of the table.
One of his most recent assignments had to do with arranging secret military aid to three South American countries because they did not trust their own armed forces to handle a politically hypersensitive mission. The takeover of their entire continent by fascists was the very undesirable alternative. Joplin thought that would be the superlative assignment of his career, but a new state of affairs promised to top this earlier case. While giving only a brief hint of the situation, Joplin's boss, Secretary of State Benjamin Bellingham who didn't know a hell of a lot himself warned Joplin that he was about to be tossed into the deep end of a diplomatic pool filled with boiling controversy and peril.
.
0901 HOURS
JOPLIN stepped from his office, carrying his briefcase, and went down to the end of a hall where a Capitol Police guard stood by the single elevator situated there. The young officer was giving the diplomat's ID badge a studious gaze when another man approached. Joplin turned to see Colonel John Turn-bull, U.S. Army, the chief of the Special Operations Liaison Staff. The colonel, also toting the usual briefcase that seemed a fashion accessory in Washington, produced his own ID. As the policeman perused the card, the colonel nodded to Joplin. I wouldn't be surprised if we were going to the same place.
Nor would I, Joplin said. How're you doing, John?
Frankly, I'm much too busy to be called away from my office for unstated reasons, Carl.
The policeman approved the IDs, then turned and slid a scanner card into a slot in the wall next to the elevator. The doors buzzed open and the diplomat and officer stepped inside. Turnbull pressed a button that would take them down to the third basement.
When the elevator arrived, there was another armed law enforcement officer present. After yet one more inspection of the ID badges, the two men proceeded a short distance to an unmarked door. Joplin followed as Turnbull stepped into the room. They both came to an abrupt halt, surprised to see Arlene Entienne, the president's Chief of Staff, seated at the head of a large mahogany conference table. A man unknown to them was seated to one side.
Joplin greeted Entienne, saying. How have you been, Arlene?
Fine, thank you, Carl, she answered. Hello, John. This Cajun-African-American was a beautiful green-eyed woman with dark brown hair. The two ethnicities blended well, giving her an exotic beauty that made her the darling of the media. Have you had the operation on that ankle yet?
I'm putting it off for as long as possible, Turnbull replied. The ex'Green Beret had seriously fractured his ankle on a parachute jump, and the joint was deteriorating to the point that it would have to be fused. He could have gotten a physical disability release from the service, but opted to take a staff job instead. Thus, he ended up as chief of SOLS.
Sit down, gentlemen, Entienne invited. I would like to introduce you to Edgar Watson. He's CIA on the Iranian desk.
Greetings, Watson said. Ms. Entienne has already told me who you two are.
You've been called down to this deep inner sanctum for a very special briefing, Entienne said. As you have surmised, I'm sure, this is a most sensitive situation.
Watson swung his briefcase up from the floor onto the tabletop. He opened it and pulled some papers out, shoving a separate packet to both Joplin and Turnbull. Okay. Now hear this. Certain elements of the Iranian Army have initiated a mujahideen movement independent of all others. They have begun operations against the foreign military, i.e., Westerners, in the Middle East. They are calling themselves the Jihad Abadi.
Wait a minute, Joplin said. That is Arabic. The Iranians speak Farsi.
This is because they are using only Arabs in their operations, Watson said. Unfortunately, this resulted in throwing off our initial intelligence probes. Fact of the matter, we wasted a lot of time before we finally figured out they were operating out of Iran. However, they also have various cells in Iraq, Syria, and Saudi Arabia. Most of their agents are citizens of those countries who have lost faith in the current group of Arab Islamics, suicide bombers in particular.
I'll be damned, Turnbull said. They finally figured out that getting their young people to blow themselves up and destroying a generation was not a particularly intelligent thing to do, hey?
Evidently, Watson commented. They want to adopt the more civilized tactic of launching well-planned attacks on their enemy to inflict the most casualties possible while keeping their own losses to a minimum.
Joplin glanced at Entienne. Are we to assume the President is deeply concerned about this?