The door opened and the minuscule director of Central Intelligence burst into the room.
“Sorry, Mr. President. I got caught in the early morning beltway gridlock,” he said, his alto voice rising a couple of octaves. Parbros Digby-Jones nodded to everyone around the table, a forced smile on his face. His disheveled appearance made him look as if he had slept in his suit.
With papers held loosely under his left arm, he scrambled to his seat. Everyone expected the papers to fall any moment.
“Sit down, Farbros,” the president said sharply.
“If you’re ever on time, I’ll know it’ll be because I’m late.”
“Oh, no, sir, Mr. President. Never that, sir.” He dropped the papers on the table and shoved his heavy black-rimmed glasses back onto his narrow nose as his small frame disappeared into the plush leather chair. The president thought of them as “chastity glasses.” If you wore them, you didn’t have to worry about getting laid.
The president recalled a discussion a year ago with the first lady about Farbros Digby-Jones, recognized budget weenie wizard and pork barrel slasher, being put in charge of this nation’s intelligence apparatus. That was before she withdrew. He missed her quick, on-the-mark analyses.
Nearly a year ago while lying in bed, sharing a bottle of wine, they privately decided that Farbros won the prize as the worst selection of his administration. Of course, they admitted, it was Digby-Jones who found the funds to push through Crawford’s health plan. And that nationwide health plan got him elected to a second term. The graying of America voted for comfort, which was the reason he quit dying his hair and let the strands of gray slowly speckle his sandy brown stock of hair. That being said, he and his wife decided they learned one thing from hiring Farbros and that was never hire a man with a hyphenated name.
God, he missed his wife beside him.
Crawford shuffled through the briefing material in front of him while everyone waited quietly for him to signal the briefing to begin. Even as he shuffled and recognized the papers as ones he had seen earlier during breakfast, his mind wandered to the two objectives for this second term.
One, to mark a place in the history books for his administration, and two, to hold the spot for his party in the next election. He glanced at the black notebook in front of Franco. Last night’s polls showed a high approval rating of forty-seven percent. If he could maintain that, plus or minus five percent, his party would sweep into the White House two years from now. Even if his less competent vice president followed him, Garrett Crawford would receive credit for the victory.
“I know, Farbros, I know,” said the president, bringing his thoughts back to the table.
A female Air Force lieutenant colonel stood at the far end of the table beside a large screen. The military services alternated weekly the dubious honor of doing the intelligence briefings for the president. Most mornings, Crawford read the intelligence notes sent up from the basement while he sipped his two allowed cups of coffee and shoveled lightly buttered oatmeal around a bowl with his spoon. Last night’s events remained unclear. He touched the Band-Aid again. Maybe not unclear, he thought. What he needed was facts. Once arranged in his mind, orderly and chronologically, things would become clearer and clues to the relationships between the events, as always, would pop up and reveal themselves. His innate ability to discover hidden agendas and see the big picture was more than acute political skill. Until he was clear about what was happening the anxiety bubbling around his emotions would never disappear. He may not be one to call an emergency session of the National Security Council lightly, but… “Go ahead. Colonel,” said the president.
“Good morning, Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen, General Stanhope. I am Lieutenant Colonel FrasierAllen, your briefer for this morning.”
Shit, the president thought, another hyphenated name.
A picture of Algeria flashed on the screen, showing Algiers and Mers El Kebir highlighted with “campfire” symbols.
“Last night rebel forces completed the capture of Algiers and demanded the few remaining loyal government units to return to their garrisons or face execution. Few have accepted the offer. Government forces still retain control of western Algeria from here to the city of Oran.” Her laser pointer highlighted the largest city in the western portion of Algeria.
“The rebels control all of eastern Algeria.”
The red laser beam moved across the map.
“Initially President Aineuf directed government forces to return to their garrisons. We think he believed this would defuse the situation. Instead, where government forces obeyed the orders and returned, Islamic fundamentalists overran them, scoring easy victories. The casualty figures are staggering. The rebels are rapidly occupying the cities and already control most of the countryside. In western Algeria, where loyal military units continue to fight, we are seeing slow retreats mixed with some units holding stubbornly to strategic defensive positions.”
An overhead image of Algiers flashed onto the screen.
“This is Algiers, Mr. President. The American Embassy, located here, is twelve blocks from the harbor. Early morning imagery shows armored personnel carriers and soldiers of the Algerian Liberation Front taking positions around Embassy Row. According to the DATT, the main concentration of insurgents is around the American Embassy. Initial assessment by DIA is that the Islamic rebels intend to restrict access to the embassies by Algerian citizens. The American, French, British, Italian, and Spanish Embassies are surrounded, but with the exception of sporadic gunfire in the vicinity, there have been no overt hostilities against the embassies or their personnel.”
“The DATT, our defense attache in Algiers, Colonel Markum, earlier today met with rebel leaders at the main gate to the American Embassy compound. He was told the insurgents’ presence was to protect the Westerners from the are of the Algerian people as they throw off the yoke of their oppressors. The utilities, water and—”
“Tell me more about this meeting. Did the colonel express our concerns to the Algerian rebels? Colonel, the last thing we want is another Tehran,” the president interrupted.
Heads nodded in agreement around the table.
“Well, sir,” she said hesitantly.
“Colonel Markum strongly protested their presence and expressed in the vernacular his doubts as to their intentions.”
The president looked at Franco Donelli.
“Franco, let’s ask the embassy to give us a statement on that meeting.
Let’s show that we have some semblance of dialogue with the rebels.”
“He said, “Bullshit,” ” Roger Maddock added, testily. “He said what?” President Crawford asked. Large bushy half-inch-wide eyebrows, by which the president was caricatured in political cartoons, rose upward in surprise over his wide eyes.
“Bullshit.”
The president thought for a few seconds. Then his head bobbed several times.
“Why couldn’t he have said something such as “Nuts,” like that general in World War II?”
He tapped the Band-Aid on his nose.
“Yes, sir, he probably would have, if he had thought about it, but what he said was “Bullshit.”
” The president grinned.
“Well, Franco, can we release this to the press? What do you think they’ll say when they hear that a lone United States Army colonel, standing at the door of the American Embassy, surrounded by angry rebels aiming guns at him, replied, “Bullshit’? I think the American public will love it!”
“They’d react like you did, sir. They will love it. But, you shouldn’t be the one to release it.”