The marine never took his eyes from the road. “What conversation, sir?”
Pope nodded. “Good man.”
When they arrived at the White House, Pope was admitted into the Oval Office for a meeting with not just the president but also the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General William J. Couture, and the new White House chief of staff, Captain Glen Brooks — former commander of the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU), aka SEAL Team VI.
These were the only men in Washington who knew about the Antiterrorism Response Unit. Not even the vice president was privy to the ATRU.
Captain Brooks was a broad-shouldered, soft-spoken man with discerning brown eyes, and he carried himself with a calm, military bearing. He’d been chosen to replace Tim Hagen — over dozens of more likely candidates — at Couture’s suggestion. Brooks was in no way a qualified political adviser, but his organizational skills and immediate knowledge of foreign intelligence matters was unsurpassed, and his constant presence provided the commander in chief a full-time military adviser who possessed actual hands-on experience — the kind of experience that Hagen had sorely lacked.
Within five days of Brooks’s appointment, the White House had begun to function with the same military efficiency as a US aircraft carrier conducting flight operations. With nuclear terror now a bona fide reality, many on Capitol Hill were wondering if the likes of hard-core warrior types like Brooks and Couture might be the future of White House staffers, and well-known journalists were writing ever-critical op-ed pieces speculating on what an increasingly militarized federal government might mean for the future of the United States.
“Bob,” the president said, standing to reach across the desk. “Glad you could make it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Pope turned and shook hands with Couture. “Bill,” he said quietly, “good to see you.”
General Couture was the only man in the room taller than Pope. He had merciless gray eyes and a wicked scar on the left side of his face, courtesy of an Iraqi RPG-7 grenade launcher. “Bob, you remember Glen.”
“Yes, of course,” Pope said, matching the firmness of Brooks’s grip.
Everyone sat, and the president rocked back in his chair. “Okay, Bob, bring us up to speed on Dokka Umarov and this BTC pipeline business. Is Umarov finally dead?”
Pope pushed his glasses up onto his nose. “No. He’s not. But our immediate problems are much bigger than Dokka Umarov.” He broke Gil’s situation down over the next fifteen minutes, and when he was finished talking, everyone sat waiting to see how the president would react.
If the president was rattled, it didn’t show. In fact, he appeared vaguely intrigued. “General?” he said quietly.
Couture looked at Pope. “How badly is Shannon wounded?”
“I have no idea,” Pope replied. “As I say, he might even be dead, but there’s no reason to assume that yet. My gut tells me he’s still alive and combat effective.”
Couture shifted his gaze to Brooks. “Glen, you’re the navy man. Who do we have in the Med to pluck those two maniacs off that island without the Italians getting wise? We obviously can’t involve any of our people at Sigonella — at least not directly.” He was referring to US Naval Air Station Sigonella, located on the eastern side of Sicily.
Brooks gave a calm, sly smile, reminding everyone present that silent waters ran deep. “There’s a detachment from Group Two aboard the Whitney.” He was referring to Naval Special Warfare Group Two, which commanded SEAL Teams II, IV, VIII and X. The USS Mount Whitney (JCC 20) was the command ship of the US Sixth Fleet, presently on station in the eastern Mediterranean. Brooks turned to the president. “A squad from SEAL Team Eight could be brought to bear rather quickly, sir.”
“What do you propose?” the president asked.
“Well, sir, assuming Shannon and Dragunov are still alive… and assuming we can reestablish contact… our best chance would be a submersible SDV: a SEAL delivery vehicle. It could be used to sneak both Shannon and Dragunov aboard the USS Ohio. The Ohio’s a ballistic missile sub fitted with a pair of dry dock shelters on her hull.” He grinned. “And this is exactly the kind of mission she was fitted out for. I recommend we get a team of SEALs aboard and get her into position ASAP.”
The president sat behind his desk feeling for a moment like Captain James T. Kirk at the con of the Starship Enterprise. It was good to be in command, but it was even better knowing that you were surrounded, at last, by men who knew how to do their jobs. And he was glad to finally have no one in between himself and Pope.
“I’m glad I never fired him,” he thought. “I can’t afford to be without him now.”
“I’ll leave the details to you, General.” He knew that Brooks would cut the actual orders to the navy, which was not strictly within the authority of the White House chief of staff, but the White House now ran on a perpetual war footing, for all intents and purposes, and everyone in the Joint Chiefs understood it.
“Now, about this shadow cell you mentioned, Bob. Do you have recommendations?”
Pope didn’t need to explain the CIA’s troubled state; everyone was acutely aware of how badly the aging intelligence agency was foundering. Many on Capitol Hill were even calling for the CIA to be broken up, its responsibilities distributed across the FBI, the NSA, and the DIA — the Defense Intelligence Agency, which presently handled all military-based espionage operations. It was obvious even to the president that the CIA was in genuine danger of slipping into obsolescence in the post — Cold War era, and he was secretly on the verge of going public with that exact sentiment. The ATRU could easily — and probably should — be placed under the auspices of the DIA.
“First,” Pope said, “I’d like to bring Cletus into the fold.” Cletus Webb was the acting director of the CIA, his confirmation still on hold in the Senate. “This intelligence coup is happening on his watch, right under his nose.”
“Do you suggest making him privy to the ATRU as well?” Couture asked.
“I don’t see how we could avoid that.”
The president shifted in his seat. “Is Cletus the right man, Bob? Did I make a mistake with his appointment? You can speak frankly.”
Pope noted how much more relaxed the president was now that Hagen had left the White House; how much more reasonable and willing he was to ask for advice. “Cletus is not the problem, Mr. President. He’s a good man.”
The president glanced at Couture. “What do you think, Bill? Is today the day?”
Couture nodded. “I think so, Mr. President.”
Pope looked between them. “The day for what?”
“Bob,” the president said, “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and the three of us have spoken about it at length. I’m going to withdraw Webb’s appointment.”
Pope didn’t like the sound of that. Anyone else they brought in to fill Webb’s position would have too many scores to settle, and that would serve only to further destabilize the agency.
“Mr. President, in all honesty, I think that would be a mistake.”
“I’m going to appoint you as director of operations instead.”
Pope sat back, his spine stiffening involuntarily.
“Effective today,” the president went on. “When I make the official announcement, I also intend to make it clear that you almost single-handedly saved San Diego from nuclear destruction last September — a necessary minor embellishment.” He traded glances with Couture, a smirk coming to his face. “Let Senator Grieves try and delay this confirmation.”