“How much military experience do you have, Franco?” Roger asked.
“As much as everyone else in this room. None. But this isn’t about military experience and knowledge. It’s politics, and we’ve got more experience and knowledge here than anyone else in the country.”
“Some of us do.” mumbled the secretary of state.
“That may be, Franco,” Roger said, fighting hard to keep anger from his voice. Then, turning to President Crawford, he appealed, “Mr. President, politicians don’t put their lives on the line. The military does. Before you decide to follow Franco’s expert military advice, I strongly recommend that we involve the Joint Chief of Staffs to weigh the pros and cons. We lack the military strength we had during the Cold War. Our military is less than a third of what it was when we fought Desert Storm in ‘91. Look at the problems we had tackling Kosovo and keeping Iraq in line at the same time. I think, Mr. President, if you choose to commit our military fully to Korea, then we will be unable to hold the crisis in the Mediterranean. In fact, I would submit that we will have to vacate the Med.”
The president pulled his. chair out and sat down. Everyone watched while he tapped his pencil on the desk and thought. He ran his free hand through his graying brown hair. This was where the rubber meets the road. Everything he’d read about previous presidents revealed that sometime during their time in office a major crisis required them to make a decision that had a long-term effect on America and its people.
This was his Rubicon, and all of the advice provided didn’t change that fact. A week before the events in the Mediterranean and Korea, the American people had seen him as a strong leader who displayed a steady confidence in his decisions. Even he knew that the majority of those decisions were national ones, along with international decisions of significantly less magnitude than this one. Today, the polls showed a different story. Korea might be the most volatile, and it was. It was also ironic that the majority of America’s military might was in the Pacific, while sixty-five percent of its gross national product depended on trade with Europe. Trade that depended on stability in a region that historically had been unstable. Instability quickly turned to war. He knew that whatever decision he made, good or bad, history would place the responsibility on him. What he wanted to do and what was strategically the right thing to do were sometimes two different things. Someday historians would use their Monday-morning quarterbacking to tell how his foresight was wrong, but the cards were shuffled and dealt and he had to play them. He had two areas of gross instability. Both had the potential to cost American lives. One already had. His decision must be based on a logical outgrowth of that reasoning. Which one would save more American lives?
After several minutes President Crawford put the pencil down, gave a quick nod, and said, “Thank you, Roger. You, too, Franco and Bob. But in weighing what is facing us, I have to agree with Franco on this. Korea is the powder keg with the most potential of igniting a world war. Events in the Mediterranean are the more emotional. They cause every red-blooded American to want to grab a weapon and kick ass. But I think we’re going to have to continue with a holding situation in the Mediterranean. I agree with Franco. We will divert the USS Roosevelt. Roger, tell General Sutherland to hold the Mediterranean crisis with the forces he has in Europe. I don’t want to do this, but we have to. We are going to show Libya the consequence of attacking American forces. I promise you that. But Korea must come first. I suspect the newspapers will have a field day with this decision, Franco. But you’re right. It’s the right decision. As for passing on our thoughts to the Chinese, Bob, work with Franco to develop a thoughtful, but firm and private, demarche for the Chinese on our intentions if they do not rein in North Korea.”
The president paused and took a deep breath. Roger Mad dock inched forward on his seat to speak. The last thing Crawford wanted was dissent. Before the secretary of defense could speak, President Crawford asked him. “What’s the latest on our missing SEALs in Algeria?”
“Won’t know until tonight, Mr. President, when the USS Albany tries another pickup,” Roger responded. If the president depended so much on Franco for his military advice, then why in the hell did he need a secretary of defense? But, in the end, Roger Maddock kept this thought to himself.
“Keep me informed and let me know when they’ve been recovered. The last thing we need is for the radical regime in Algiers to have a bunch of Americans marching through the streets. How about the USS Gearing survivors?”
“As you know, Mr. President, they were picked up late yesterday by the USS Miami. The submarine is enroute to Naples and is expected to arrive sometime tomorrow. The report from the Miami showed sixty-two survivors rescued, including the captain of the Gearing. Four sailors are in critical, but stable, condition. A medical team from the Nassau is on Miami and treating them. All have suffered some degree of exposure. We’ll have a team of intelligence specialists, led by the N2 from CINCUSNAVEUR in Naples, to interview the crew, and Bethesda Naval Hospital has sent a team of psychiatrists to help.”
“Okay. Keep me informed. Franco, get Allison and send her to Naples to represent me with the crew of the Gearing. Have her see me and I’ll give her a handwritten letter to read to the crew members. Roger, keep the press away from them. Let’s give those brave American boys and girls some breathing room to recover.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
“Maybe we should give the commanding officer a medal?”
Roger Maddock answered, “Yes. sir. We are considering it, but we need to know all of the events before we do. It is known that the USS Gearing shot down at least one aircraft, is believed to have sunk a submarine — that’d be one of the old Libyan Foxtrot subs — and the reconnaissance aircraft that recorded the action confirms the sinking of one missile patrol boat by the destroyer. On paper, it shows a hell of a fight, but the Navy wants to finish its investigation before considering any awards for the captain and the crew.”
“Okay, but right now, America needs some heroes. So tell the Navy to work this one fast. From what I’ve read in the paper, we should consider the Medal of Honor for Captain Heath Cafferty.”
“Yes, sir,” Roger acknowledged, expecting Franco to say something, and surprised when the national security advisor did not. “The Navy is working this one fast. Chief of Naval Operations has sent the vice chief of Naval Operations to meet the crew when it docks in Naples. His team will start the investigative wheels rolling. We wouldn’t want to inadvertently award the Medal of Honor erroneously.”
“Okay. Keep me advised, Roger. We need a hero, so tell the Navy to expedite its review process.” President Crawford stood up and walked toward the door. “I have to go. I’ll see all of you tonight. Think about it, and if you see other issues we need to address, I want to know about them as soon as possible. Roger, I want a Medal of Honor winner somewhere in this mess. The nation needs it; we need it.”
He stuck his hand out as he walked by his national security advisor.
“Franco, let me have the book. Let’s see if your polls are better to me than the Washington Post’s.” And I need better polls, President Crawford thought as he left the room.
The Libyan-registered RO-RO ship waited until the USS Roosevelt sailed through the Bab El Mandeb Strait and into the Red Sea. Once the Roosevelt was out of sight over the horizon, the Libyan ship turned north, too. The white merchant vessel passed through the narrow body of water that connected the southern end of the Red Sea to the Gulf of Aden. The red sun waved hazily through the African heat rising off Ethiopia as it moved lower in the sky. The fine desert sands blown off the Arabian deserts to the east obscured the vision in that direction. No other ships were visible. The Libyan RO-RO surface radar was useless as Miserah Island, in the middle of the strait, and the close land masses on both sides created land smear across the radar face to blank out the scope. The ship’s crew laughed at the half-naked African natives who, with their fishing lines out, dotted the beaches along the Ethiopian shore. The natives were a minimal risk, easily ignored as the ship conducted its mission. Natives never communicated anything past their village, and what would they say anyway? “Big ship circle Miserah Island.”