“Going home?” he asked as he rubbed his short salt-and pepper hair with a small towel that he always took with him when he ran.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I put the phone calls and messages on your desk that came in while you were out scaring the natives, running around the park at this time of night.”
“Still daylight, Sheila. Got to run sometime or all that beer and pasta I love will go right to the tummy.”
“It’s disgusting anyway, a man your age without a beer gut. Not to mention without a wife. What do you think you’re doing to the world’s image of the American couch-potato male?”
He chuckled as he moved to the inner door. “Good night, Sheila.”
“Good night, sir,” the elderly secretary replied as she pulled the door shut behind her.
He saw the stack of work on his desk that had piled up during his two hours away, nearly started to go through it, but decided at the last minute that a quick shower was more attractive. If he started through the stack, he’d find himself sitting there an hour later, his wet gym shorts stuck to the leather upholstery with the air-conditioning behind him aggravating his sports arthritis.
Thirty minutes later, dressed in Docksider slacks and an open-necked Gucci navy-blue shirt, the deputy director turned the air-conditioning down before he sat down and began methodically going through the stack of messages and phone calls. He shuffled them periodically to keep the stack as neat as possible as he worked through the pile. Being single allowed him to stay as late as he wanted; sometimes he slept on the couch rather than go home.
Meticulously he read each note, one at a time. Several required phone calls, and he made them. Some he put back in his in box for tomorrow. Others, he read, crumpled, and tossed into the nearby burn bag for the night staff to shred. Around nine o’clock he reached the message the duty officer had brought earlier; at the same time she appeared in the doorway.
“Yes?” he said, his eyebrows raising in question as he looked at her.
“Sir, I was just checking on the message I brought up from the chief of station in Algiers about President Alneuf.” “What message?” he asked as he glanced down at the one in his hand.
“Wait a minute, here it is.”
He read it, slowly lifting the phone as his eyes moved down the message. “Go tell the chief of station to expect instructions within the next four hours and tell him that, yes, we will arrange President Alneuf’s evacuation.” He punched the programmed telephone number on the STE-II secure telephone. Looking up, he saw her still standing there.
“Go!” he said. “Go and relay my instructions to him immediately!” He waved her away.
“Do you want to chop it before it goes?” she asked as she backed away.
“No, just tell him we’re working the issue, we agree and will be back to him ASAP!” he replied sharply. “Now get down there and get that reply out. When they’ve acknowledged, come tell me.”
She ran out of the room. At least he’d invited her back, she thought.
There was something about Italian men that … Well, later. First things first. She ran down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator.
The director answered the phone. “Mr. Digby-Jones,” the deputy director said, “we need to go secure.” Then he relayed the information and tactfully guided the political appointee through the maze of what they had to do.
CHAPTER 2
“Where is Mr. Dig Byjones?” the president scanned the security council members seated around the table, and they shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders.
After several seconds when no one answered, President Crawford continued impatiently. “Here I am late for a meeting and he still can’t be here when I arrive.” He threw his pencil down on the table.
“And, this is a meeting where the advice of the director of Central Intelligence would be appreciated, and what do we have? No DCI is what we have!”
President Crawford shook his head, started to say something, thought better of it, and instead, looked at the secretary of defense. “Roger, bring me up to date on what we’re doing militarily.”
“Mr. President, the USS Stennis is off the coast of Norfolk, conducting routine sea trials and carrier qualifications for a bunch of F-14s and F-18s out of Oceana. She’s been ordered to return to Norfolk to outfit for an immediate deployment to the Mediterranean. After turnaround, two F-14 fighter squadrons from Oceana, will bingo aboard as soon as she clears the Norfolk channel. Two F-18 squadrons — one of them the Marine Moonlighters from Cherry Point, a couple of S-3A antisubmarine birds from Jacksonville and an E-2C early-warning aircraft out of Norfolk. Estimated time for the Stennis battle group to deploy is three to four days after return.”
Roger Maddock paused to take a sip of water. “I’d estimate nearer five days for the carrier battle group to get organized, outfitted, and turned around. At max speed, she can be at the Strait of Gibraltar eight days later. Commander in chief, U.S. Atlantic Fleet, is in the process of identifying the escorts for the battle group and will have that done today.”
“Escorts?”
“Yes, sir. The cruisers, destroyers, auxiliary ships needed to round out protection for the carrier and provide the logistic support to keep the group steaming.”
“So, the United States is going to have to wait nearly two weeks before a carrier battle group is in the Med?” Crawford asked, leaning forward, his hands spread out on the table.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense replied sheepishly. “We only have eight carriers. In the meantime, European Command has ordered two squadrons of Air Force F-16s from our northern Italian base at Aviano to Brindisi near the tip of Italy’s boot. They arrive today to augment the four other F-16s that landed yesterday.
Those four, already in Brindisi, are flying air protection for the RC-135 reconnaissance missions. An Air National Guard C-130 transport aircraft, carrying additional Air Force F-16 ground-crew personnel, arrived a few hours ago. We are moving airborne tankers from the States to Brindisi. I have given approval to recall the RC-135 involved in drug-interdiction operations in South America, and the Air Force will turn it around to the Med within the next forty-eight hours.”
“Will those F-16s help if I order the evacuation of citizens from Algeria?”
“Sir, the F-16s won’t have the range to reach Algeria from Brindisi until the tankers arrive, but they will be able to provide combat air protection over Sigonella and Souda Bay in the event Libya initiates another attack. They are already providing air protection over the survivors of the USS Gearing.”
“Roger, we needed the air protection and the carrier in the Mediterranean before the attack. Why didn’t we have those?
Doesn’t seem to me we had much in the Med when this Libyan attack occurred.”
“Mr. President, we don’t have the maritime forces to patrol everywhere, sir. We made a conscious decision, years ago, to deploy a carrier in the Med for only a few months a year. It seemed acceptable at the time. It gave us our show of force and kept our presence evident, while giving us the flexibility to show the flag elsewhere. We just do not have enough carriers to keep one in the Mediterranean permanently.”
“Seems pointless to me, Roger. We didn’t have a carrier this time, which brings another question. Why so many aircraft parked so close together in Sigonella?” President Craw ford picked up a photograph in front of him and tossed it to the secretary of defense, who was sitting to his left. It nearly slid off the end of the brightly polished conference table. “Why? I want to know why! Look at this photo taken before the attack. What the hell was the admiral thinking?”
Roger Maddock peered over his bifocals at the satellite photograph of Sigonella Air Base, and decided it would be pointless to point out to the president that the commanding officer of Sigonella is a Navy captain, not an admiral.