To the Death am-10 Page 14

  “And that would be an awful waste,” replied the commodore. “By the sword of the Prophet, that would be the most awful waste. But Allah will guide us.”

  “Allah is great,” intoned Ravi. And he was joined in that Muslim exaltation by everyone in the room. And in the silence that followed, they repeated the following lines from the Koran, the prayer of the jihadist:

  … from thee alone do we ask help.

  Guide us on the straight path,

  The path of those upon whom is thy favor,

  … Light upon light,

  God guides whom He will, to his Light…

  Washington, D.C.

  Not every member of President Bedford’s White House staff was absolutely thrilled about the continued presence of Admiral Arnold Morgan at the elbow of the chief executive.

  And in particular, there was a small cabal of the president’s speechwriters who considered the admiral a gross intrusion upon their ambitions. These were youngish men, three of them, highly educated, who believed to the depths of their egotistical souls that they alone knew what the president should be saying.

  The problem with such people is they also believe they know what he should be doing. Not all the time. But enough of the time to make certain senior staffers extremely wary of them.

  The business of writing speeches for the boss has, over the years, developed into the function of a committee. First draft, rewrite, alterations, new thought, new draft. Christ, he better not say that. why not? He is the president, right? Yes, but the media will go for him. they’ll go for him no matter what. yes, but. yes, but. yes, but. yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.

  This crowd, bursting with self-importance, would rewrite Shakespeare—To be or not to be (delete the last “to be,” superfluous), That is the question (delete “question” and substitute “problem,” it’s more positive, less indecisive).

  Writers and editors, the endless war. I don’t think you should say this, or indeed that.

  Yeah, but where were you, asshole, when the paper was blank?

  After a couple of years of this internal strife, these literary staffers quite often lose track of the fact that what a president says has nothing whatsoever to do with what he does.

  They begin to believe that their thoughts and words represent actual policy. And when a tyrant like Admiral Morgan comes rampaging in, not giving a damn, one way or another, who says what, only about what the president does — well, that causes inevitable friction among the scribes.

  They are also apt to rear up a bit when he writes something down, tells someone to type it out and then release it immediately, on behalf of the president—and someone tell those assholes who work here not to touch one single word of it, if they want to stay employed.

  Staff relations were never a strong point with Admiral Morgan — though, when he commanded a U.S. Navy nuclear submarine, the crew, to a man, believed him to be some kind of a god.

  When he headed up the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, he conducted some kind of a reign of terror, growling from the center of a vast spider’s web, striking fear into the hearts of agents, field officers, military commanders, and foreign heads of state.

  When the previous president brought him into the White House as his national security adviser, he caused havoc among senior members of the staff, bypassing some people completely, speaking only to the president. He treated the chain of command as if it were not there, riding rough-shod over anyone who intervened.

  That first president, the one who recruited the admiral, trusted him totally. As did the present incumbent of the Oval Office. If that’s Arnie’s opinion, that’s the way we go.

  The president who served between these two was virtually frog-marched out of the Oval Office by the United States Marines. Directly into resignation, because he thought he could ignore the advice of the old Lion of the West Wing, the man every serving chief in the armed forces revered above all others.

  Arnold Morgan was the Top People’s Man. Only the truly brilliant truly liked him. The rest regarded him with the suspicion that lurks only in less able minds. And this was a quality that had no place in an assessment of Admiral Morgan. He was selfless, demanded no financial reward, and had no personal ambitions.

  He had sufficient patriotism to last ten lifetimes. And when he walked through the corridors of the White House, he still nodded sharply to the portrait of the former Supreme Allied Commander, President Dwight D. Eisenhower.

  On the wall of his study at home was a portrait of General Douglas MacArthur. Any time Arnold sat alone wrestling with some awkward problem, he invariably ended by muttering, That’s the way the United States of America should go. Maybe not Great Britain, or any of those lightweight foreigners over there. But that’s the way for the U.S. of A.

  And then he would look up at the general’s portrait and snap, “Right, sir?” As if expecting a confirming, “Affirmative, Admiral,” from the stern face that gazed out from the east wall of the study in toney Chevy Chase.

  How could such a man possibly be understood by youngish graduates consumed by their own ambitions? How could a man who had commanded his mighty nuclear boat in the freezing depths of the North Atlantic ever expect to be comprehended by the president’s speechwriters?

  The truth was, the old Cold Warrior, with his innate mistrust of Russia and dislike of China and the “Towelheads,” expected nothing from those he brushed aside in Washington. Except for loyalty to the country, support for the military at all times, and unquestioning obedience.

  The speechwriters did not like him, this immaculately dressed bull of a man who held no torch for anyone and whose only concern was for the good of the USA.

  The speechwriters were held, literally, at arm’s length by the president throughout the entire day of the Logan bomb. He and Admiral Morgan were closeted in the Oval Office for hours. The admiral drafted the president’s speech; the admiral made the decisions on who was going into military custody and who was not.

  As for that missing Flight 62, the one that apparently crashed into the Atlantic off Norfolk. There was rumor all over the White House, but no facts, because the president discussed the issue with no one except for the admiral. Only the serving national security adviser, Professor Alan Brett, was confided in by Paul Bedford.

  And anyway, so far as the speechwriters were concerned, Professor Brett, West Point lecturer, Army Commander, and all that, was too much like Admiral Morgan to be trusted.

  Neither the president nor Admiral Morgan was a political animal. Neither of them had antennae for personal danger, plotting, and scheming. In a Medieval royal court, the pair of them would have lost their heads in the first ten minutes. They simply did not do intrigue.

  And intrigue was brewing in Paul Bedford’s White House. Hints were being dropped to the media. the president did not see a reason to brief on that. the president decides such things entirely on his own, consulting only Admiral Arnold Morgan. there is less cabinet government in today’s White House than at any time in the last forty years.

  It was only a remote drip. The press did not pick up the undercurrent of unrest among staffers, and no one thought anyone was briefing seriously against the president and his hard-man buddy. And they were wrong.

  The speechwriters had limitless access to the news media, and columnists, and broadcasters. It was just a matter of time before one of them decided to help some writer construct a major feature article about the overpowering presence of Admiral Morgan in the Oval Office. And they could start with one question, of “national importance”—what the hell went on with Flight 62?

  The White House staffer who ultimately did the deed was Anthony Hyman, a 31-year-old English graduate with a master’s from Yale and a postgraduate doctorate in political science from Balliol College, Oxford.

  Anthony had strict personal goals. He expected to become the president’s chief speechwriter within eighteen months. He expected to have a position with a senior senator, hopefully from his home state of Conne
cticut, within five years, and to run for office as a congressman well before his fortieth birthday.

  He was a tubby person, inclined to sarcasm and impatient with those of less obvious qualities than his own. He blinked at the world through thick lenses set into gold wire spectacles, and he possessed an ego approximately the size of the Smithsonian.

  Anthony Hyman’s personal confidence was little short of atomic. He walked on the balls of his feet with a quick, short, bouncy stride and the manner of a busy debt collector. His hair was longish and curly, and his suits usually needed pressing.

  He was quick-witted, and no one was in any doubt he was the best writer in the building. A lot of people did not like him. But these were few compared with the long list of people Anthony himself disliked. This included almost everyone, for a vast variety of reasons. But the one at the very top was Admiral Arnold Morgan.

  There had, apparently, been an occasion when Anthony had drafted a press release specifically to mollify the liberal branch of the media. It was not altogether necessary, and since the matter was military, the president checked it out with Admiral Morgan, who immediately ripped it up and threw it in the wastebasket.

  A few months later, on the day of the Logan bomb, the admiral himself wrote out the main points for Paul Bedford’s forthcoming evening speech. And three people heard him growl, “Better get this polished up, but don’t for Christ’s sake give it to that fat fucker who hasn’t got the brains he was born with.”

  Anthony Hyman had just enough enemies for that little episode to be relayed onto the White House grapevine, and in the end, of course, someone made certain he heard about it personally.

  The tubby speechwriter seethed. And he planned to strike back, using his particular buddy in the media, the Washington Post political columnist, Henry Brady. And on a chill February evening in a small, unobtrusive bar in Alexandria, Virginia, Anthony Hyman spilled the beans on Arnold and the president. Much like Ramon Salman had done with Ravi Rashood.

  They ordered a couple of beers, and the White House man began by explaining the close personal relationship between the two men, how their wives were friends, how Arnold never even knocked when he called at the Oval Office, a habit which had annoyed a succession of secretaries and aides.

  He described how President Bedford never even sought another opinion when Admiral Morgan had made a decision. He described how the president took his cue on the phrasing of awkward matters, how he never even consulted his speechwriters when Admiral Morgan issued him with a first draft.

  “I’m telling you, Henry,” he said. “This president’s got a lot of brain-power in his writing pool, and a lot of talented advice surrounding him, but there are times when he uses none of it. And it’s usually when that boorish old bastard from another age comes calling.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Anthony,” said the newspaperman. “But Admiral Morgan commands huge respect in the international intelligence community, and he has cracked some big issues on behalf of the United States, more than most people will ever know. And what you’re telling me is certainly excellent background material, but it’s not what you might call hot. ”

  “I’m coming to that — I’m coming to that,” said Anthony. “Be patient. We’re not in a hurry, are we?”

  “No, Anthony, of course not, but no one’s very interested in running a big anti-Arnold Morgan story without some heavyweight information. He’s one powerful dude. And he hates the media, anyway.”

  “Okay, okay, keep listening, okay? Now let’s take the Boston airport bombing. I’m here to tell you, the admiral was in the Oval Office, right there with the president, through the whole day. And there were a lot of decisions made that day, especially about the captured terrorist, and how and where he would be interrogated.

  “I know he refused to speak to anyone, and I also know it was Arnold Morgan who had him removed to the Naval Hospital in Bethesda — first step in getting him under strict military control, right?”

  Henry Brady’s interest visibly heightened. “Well, I admit I did not know that.”

  “Neither do you know where that terrorist is right now?”

  “We assume still under guard in Bethesda.”

  “Wrong, Henry. He’s in Guantánamo Bay, has been for nearly two weeks.”

  “Seriously? Hell, that’s news.”

  “And I’ll tell you something else. The New York cops picked up some other terrorist plot two days after Logan, and they arrested the mastermind behind the airport bomb. Right there in the city.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And you know what? Admiral Morgan had him removed instantly to Guantánamo Bay, alongside the other guy.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I talk to all the other people who should have had a part in that, and none of them did. The whole thing was Morgan and the president acting alone. They never even took the requisite legal advice.”

  “You mean the whole fucking place is being run like some kind of military junta?” replied Henry, who was ever keen to speak strictly in newspaper headlines.

  “Precisely,” smiled Anthony, amused at the phrase. “And since then, the president has spoken to the nation twice, and on neither occasion did he even consult with his team of writers.

  “And now, Henry, I want to get to the really interesting bit. You may not remember, but on that very same day, there was a civilian air crash, out in the Atlantic, fifty miles or so off Norfolk. Naturally, some of you guys asked formally if there was some kind of connection with the bomb. And you were told a categorical ‘no’ by the White House press office.

  “In his speech, the president glossed over the coincidence, and muttered about having no information about the flight or the airline that owned it. Air Traffic Control confirmed that it was a Boeing 737 and it went down in deep water. And that was supposed to be the end of it.”

  “Okay?”

  “Well, Henry, as you know, the White House is a village, nothing more, nothing less. Gossip gets around real fast. And an awful lot of people who should know better think there was a lot more to it than that.

  “What’s more, they think Admiral Morgan was in it, up to his elbows.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Henry, I’ve spoken to people who think January 15 was targeted to be another 9/11; that al Qaeda intended to blow up the busiest passenger terminal in the Boston airport, to commemorate American Airlines Flight 11 and United 175. The aircraft that hit the North and South Towers. Both of ’em, as I’m sure you remember, took off from Boston.

  “On January 15, three or four hours after the disaster in Terminal C, those al Qaeda guys intended to slam another airliner into the Capitol building in Washington. That was Flight TBA 62, which mysteriously vanished into the Atlantic before it got there.”

  “But no one knows why?” said Henry.

  “No one has the slightest idea why. And no one’s gonna tell you anything. But I have spoken to a very senior man right here in Washington. And he thinks Admiral Arnold Morgan told the President of the United States to order U.S. fighters to battle stations, and to shoot the fucker down, laden with civilians.”

  Henry Brady’s jaw dropped about three inches.

  “And my source told me, Henry, the president went right ahead and did just that.”

  “As secrets go, that one’s pretty good, eh?” The newspaperman took a long draft of his beer. “You could work on that for years, Anthony, and never get a hint of the truth,” he said. “Like you said, we don’t even know where it went down.”

  “I accept that,” said Anthony Hyman. “But you could begin by finding out all about Thunder Bay Airways. They owned the aircraft, they know who was on board, and they might even know where it is. They just might have received a final destination from the pilot. But I’ll tell you one more thing. Thunder Bay Airways is Arab-owned.”

  Thus it was, on Thursday morning, February 23, the Washington Post carried a two-page feature on Admiral Morgan, cross-referenced on
the front page. It was the biggest feature story Henry Brady had ever written.

  The headline read:

  THE RETURN OF THE OLD LION OF THE WEST WING

  Is Arnold Morgan actually running the country? Is the president now isolated with the fire-eating admiral?

  The story ran and ran. It detailed the principal events in Admiral Morgan’s career, listed his triumphs, found no disasters, and talked openly of how Paul Bedford had been swept to power when the previous president had refused to tackle a flagrantly vicious terrorist attack on the USA.

  It pointed out how reliant so many people had been on the admiral’s support, how the military counted on him to raise hell if their warnings were not heeded.

  But it also pointed out how easily he could put people’s noses right out of joint. How he gathered devotees and enemies in equal numbers, how he did not give a damn what anyone thought, just so long as it was right for the USA.

  The story stated that President Bedford refused to make big international decisions without him. And that he was ignoring the advice of once-trusted colleagues. Mostly the sentences of Henry Brady started with Insiders say, or Sources close to the president believe, or Staffers fear. Never a name.

  Nonetheless, the message was clear. Admiral Arnold Morgan had a great deal to say about the actions of the United States on the international stage, and whereas some people thought “Thank God for that,” there were others. Others who thought this was all very unhealthy, a swerve in the wrong direction, too much power vested in two men, with too little consultation.

  Essentially, this very large spread of newspaper type was divided into two sections. The second one occupied a massive “box,” on the right, over three columns, running down most of the page. There was a full-length picture of the admiral, in uniform. In the background was a sinister-looking Los Angeles-class nuclear submarine moored on the jetty. The headline here was:

  DID THE ADMIRAL TAKE OVER ON JANUARY 15?

  And what really happened to the missing Arab 737?