A loud “Shit hot!” echoed from the earpiece.
Pontowski grinned at Butler. “I think he wants it.” He spoke into the phone. “Get your body to Kelly Field ASAP, like Friday. Meet you there.” He broke the connection and dropped the phone into its cradle. “I’m going to be at Kelly Field if you need me.” He headed for the door.
Butler started to follow, but Shaw waved him to a stop. “We need to talk.” He heaved his bulk to an upright position. “Can you find out what the hell Leland is up to?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Butler said in a low voice so Pontowski wouldn’t hear.
Fifteen
Brian Turner stuck his head into Zack’s room. “Going to the briefing?”
Zack looked up from his computer and glanced at the clock. It was 3:51 in the afternoon. “Yeah. Let’s go.” He grabbed his hat and joined his friend. They walked quickly down the stoop to the stairs, hit the box running, and hurried out the Sally Port. “According to the news, not much is happening,” Zack said. They skirted around the drill team that was practicing close-order drill, and headed for Dow Hall for the daily update on the war. The briefing, given by an active-duty Army captain in the senior ROTC unit, lasted about twenty minutes and was held in a classroom. As they were late, they had to squeeze into the rear and stand against the back wall. The captain was standing at the podium next to the big-screen TV.
“In Saudi Arabia it’s 0200 hours Thursday morning,” the captain said, “and day eighteen of the war. The opening stage, attack and stabilization, has ended. As we’ve discussed before, we’re now in interdiction and buildup, and, as you know, this phase of the war lays the foundation for what comes next — attack!” A loud cheer erupted from the cadets. The captain grinned and calmed them down. “You’ve all seen the videos from the air war, smart bombs, things going boom in the night. What you haven’t seen is the logistical buildup, which is about as exciting as counting trucks driving by. So today I want to look at political considerations the military has to deal with — specifically, the growing protest movement in the States.” He hit the play button on the videocassette player, and the TV came on. The scene was a big student demonstration at the University of California — Berkeley campus. The camera panned over the crowd and then zoomed in on a girl. On cue, she stripped off her clothes as friends wrapped an antiwar banner around her.
“Hey, nice tits!” an upper classman shouted as the camera zoomed out. The scene changed to one of a cameraman running through the crowd following two nude girls who were carrying a banner. The cameraman stumbled and fell. Three sets of bare legs ran over him.
“Raise the camera!” a cadet shouted from the back.
An excited reporter in the crowd described the scene as a modern bacchanalia. “It’s make love, not war all over again!” the reporter shouted. “At my last count at least twenty young women have shed their clothes in the quest for peace.”
“Do it here! Do it here!” four cadets chanted in the back of the room.
Brian laughed. “Skip and go naked for peace! What a great idea.”
“Let’s hear it for the demonstrators!” another voice called, obviously pleased with the coverage.
The four cadets picked up the chant. “Here, here, do it here!”
The TV screen went dark. “Knock it off!” the captain shouted, quieting the cadets. “The goal of the protesters is not to end the war but to gain political power. It’s a sophisticated process, and the first step is to gain the attention of the media. Once that is accomplished, they’ll make common cause with the doves in Washington, D.C. Then they’ll attack the military, blaming us for the war. The big lesson here is that democracies cannot fight long wars.”
The briefing was over, and Zack and Brian made their way back to Hagerman Barracks entering through the sally port. As they turned left and climbed the steps to their rooms, they stopped and leaned over the rail, watching the cadets below march back and forth, walking off the demerits they had accumulated. “Okay,” Brian said, “what’s bugging you?”
“I’m worried about my dad going to Malaysia.”
“Ain’t no war there,” Brian said. “He’ll be bored to death.”
The five trays were ready when the ExCom gathered at 5:30 A.M. in the national security adviser’s office in the Old Executive Office Building across from the White House. Each tray was a special creation, tailored to the needs of each member of the committee, and while it was a small touch, it got things off to a smooth start. The DCI let the heavy Colombian blend he preferred, with its massive caffeine jolt, work its magic. “How’s the election campaign going?” he asked conversationally.
Kennett savored his milder brew before answering. “Going as well as can be expected. Good TV coverage and enthusiastic crowds. The ‘Support Our Troops’ theme has worked well in spite of the antiwar protesters. She’ll wind up at Sacramento tonight and return to Andrews tomorrow.”
“Is there anything we need to alert the president to?” Mazie asked. She sipped at her Lady Grey tea.
“I don’t think so,” Wilding replied. He had been up two hours, and his coffee was untouched. “Other than an occasional exchange of artillery fire, it’s quiet at the front. The air-interdiction campaign is going well, and nothing is moving during the day.” He allowed a little grunt of satisfaction. “And they’re not getting any sleep at night. Over two hundred sorties last night, four aircraft reported battle damage, nothing serious, but the British lost a Tornado on landing. The crew was unhurt. The first two fast sealift ships are scheduled to arrive tomorrow.” He looked satisfied. “The pipeline is open.” He paused for a moment. “Two more died from wounds received in combat and three more from motor-vehicle accidents. All at night, driving under blackout conditions. That brings noncombat deaths to nine.”
“Can we do anything about that?” Mazie asked.
“We’re working on it,” Wilding replied.
“NSA intercepted an interesting message between Baghdad and Damascus,” the DCI said. “It was a summary of the total casualties the UIF has experienced so far. Much higher than we calculated. We might want to get it to the president.”
Mazie agreed. “Anything else?”
Butler swallowed the last of the doughnut he was munching, and washed it down with a gulp of hot chocolate. “A problem with the AVG. Pontowski tells me it’s coming together much faster than expected. He needs guidance on what weapons they can employ so they can build a training program and set up the ROE.” The ROE were the rules of engagement, normally a collection of very good ideas designed to keep fighter jocks alive. That is, until politicians got involved. Then they became a political statement that had nothing to do with engagement. Pontowski wanted to short-circuit that process by creating his own.
“That’s a problem,” Kennett said. “We’ve got to hold the AVG at arm’s length, or Leland will crucify us in the press. The president needs distance on this one, like our involvement in Afghanistan in the 1980s. We were there, but we weren’t there.”
“So exactly what is Pontowski doing there with the AVG?” the DCI asked.
“Meeting the functions of a Military Assistance Advisory Group,” Kennett replied. “In other words, he’s there to help SEATO help itself.”
“Leland’s going to love that one,” Mazie said.