User’s Manual for United States Army Battlefield High-Power Microwave
The Cabinet secretaries stood as President Longmire hobbled in, escorted by his nurse. The President entered with his head bent. Clear tubes emanated from his nostril and a bottle of oxygen trailed behind him.
Vice President Adleman watched from the oval table, reaching out a hand as the President approached. Once strong hands grasped the vice president’s. Adleman spoke in a low voice. “Are you all right?”
President Longmire waved Adleman aside as he sat. “Let’s get on with it.” Then, wearily, “Take it, will you, Cyndi? Go ahead and start.”
A tall, dark-haired woman nodded to the President as she pushed back her chair and stood. Wearing a dark suit with skirt, white blouse and subdued jewelry, Cyndi Fount strode to the front of the chamber and waited in front of the wall-sized monitor. She seemed to command respect, with a no-nonsense presence and an unsmiling face. As Director of the CIA, Cyndi had ruled the Agency with an iron fist, turning the Ivy League Mafia with their numerous escapades into one of the most efficiently run government organizations.
Vice President Robert Adleman leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers, waiting for the President to return Cyndi’s glance. He studied the CIA Director: quiet, efficient, slim — no, lithe was the word. The word seemed to convey a willowiness, an exotic character.
The President waved a feeble hand. “Go on, Cyndi.”
A slide appeared on the TV monitor; a drawing of an eagle’s head with the words central intelligence agency blocked in blue filled the screen.
“Mr. President, no changes in status since yesterday.” The screen behind her flashed with locations, numbers, and mnemonics, listing local operations and operatives. She ran through a quick update of the usual hot spots of activity.
Adleman continued to tap his fingers as Cyndi spoke in clipped sentences.
There were no surprises here. He had seen a “talking paper” on the briefings just a half hour earlier, and skimmed through the presentations to be given by Intelligence, Defense, and State. He made a point of staying on top of everything. He strived to anticipate the direction that events would take and have a contingency ready just in case. His enthusiasm was infectious, and his staff was ready to follow him off a cliff if necessary — and not because of his good looks or his longish blond hair. Rather, he radiated charisma, fueled by a seemingly boundless supply of energy.
He quickly reviewed his events scheduled for that day. Church socials, supermarket openings, and press interviews weren’t the most exciting activities, but he was grooming an image, one of competence and élan to get the job done. Everything would fall into place with sufficient exuberance. It was a sure mark of presidential material to look beyond the mundane duties of the Vice-Presidency, and strive to excel in those same mundane responsibilities.
Adleman almost missed Cyndi’s concluding remarks, but her inflection pulled him out of his thoughts.
“Although the last item isn’t part of the Agency’s agenda, I feel that it has a propensity to affect our operatives and thus deserves your attention.”
President Longmire coughed violently, expelling fluid. His nurse hastily wiped up the majority of the spittle. He wheezed and motioned for the CIA Director to continue.
Adleman raised his eyebrows at the exchange. The President’s health had worsened lately, contrary to the glowing reports given to the press. Adleman pressed his lips together as Cyndi concluded her briefing.
“The lease extension to cover our military bases in the Philippines runs out at the end of the next calendar year. The extension was originally granted a few years after we re-opened Clark Field and Subic Naval Station, but there has been no progress since then on a permanent treaty. The administration has being going round and round on this for years, and—”
“Mr. President, Ms. Fount is correct. This is a matter for State,” interrupted Francis Acht, “and not the CIA.”
Adleman bit his lip at the exchange. Like everyone else in the room, he thought that Secretary Acht was an egotistical boor — but the man knew his stuff and would win any altercation. Many despised his demeanor yet respected his insight.
Longmire spoke quietly, plunging the room into silence so his words could be understood. “Please continue, Cyndi.”
Acht promptly shut his mouth. The CIA Director continued without breaking stride.
“The United States has been debating the Philippine question for several years now, Mr. President. We have reason to believe that the leases will not be extended. The Filipinos will play hardball, just as they did when they kicked us out in the ’90s. I don’t have to go into the implications of the importance of the lease — losing the Philippines as a staging area will not only result in degrading our ability to project naval and air power, but will adversely affect our intelligence operations in the Far East. That is my concern.”
Acht tapped a pencil on the table. The sound echoed around the chamber and focused attention on the Secretary of State. “It more than threatens our military options in the Far East, Mr. President. It affects the entire Pacific Rim, the security of a hemisphere. If something happens in the South China Sea, especially with the way the Chinese have been so territorial, it’s not a sure bet that we will come out on top. Maintaining our bases there is a critical necessity — the threat to the U.S. would probably not be an immediate military one, but something just as drastic, and probably not even geopolitical, but economic.
“The Pacific Rim is following Japan’s lead, jockeying to dominate world economy,” said Acht warily. “Aside from China, Malaysia, Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, New Guinea, and even Australia have all jumped on the bandwagon. Without a strong U.S. presence in the Philippine Islands, we would lose our economic foothold and become a mere player — and an outsider.” He paused. “I concur with Ms. Fount’s concern, but for a farther-reaching reason. As for how to do it,” he shrugged, “I haven’t a clue. We can’t even keep our fighter aircraft there now for more than a few months at a time.”
Silence; then, over wheezing: “What do you propose, Cyndi?”
“Immediate Cabinet-level negotiations. Negotiations in good faith and at a high level, to let the Filipinos know that we take them seriously.”
Vice President Adleman interrupted. “She’s got a good point, Mr. President. The usual channels have been stalled for years. We’ve tried shipping more military aid to the Philippine forces — the PC, or Philippine Constabulary, they call it — in an attempt to free the logjam. Fifty million dollars over the last year.”
Another voice spoke up, that of General Newman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “That’s an increase of twenty million, if you remember, Mr. President — the House upped the ante.”
Secretary Acht swung his attention to the general. “Was that for new weapons, Dave?”
General Newman shook his head. “No, Sir. Mostly supplies — ammunition, rifles, that sort of thing. The only new item we sent them was an HPM weapon — high-power microwave.”
Adleman’s eyebrows rose. “Why did we give them an HPM device?”
“We’ve had them in the field for years now. Besides, HPMs are only good against a certain class of targets — electronics, mines. And they’re relatively short-ranged; the type we sent them isn’t effective past five hundred yards. The Philippine Constabulary will only be able to use them to detonate land mines, but it still impresses the hell out of the Filipinos. It’s a psychological coup: They are convinced we’re giving them our state-of-the-art equipment, and in return they’ve given us leeway on extending the leases of our bases.”