Chapter 53
THE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, DC
THOMAS—what do you think?”
Thomas Stansfield turned from the television bearing the final slide of the presentation the Joint Chiefs had just briefed outlining the clandestine operation in Iraq to the man who had the authority to approve the audacious mission.
“The concept of the operation is sound,” Stansfield said, choosing his words carefully, “and I like the incorporation of Delta Force into the plan.”
“Then I can guess who you’ll be rooting for during the next ArmyNavy Game,” the president said.
Stansfield smiled at his boss’s quip. “This isn’t because I have an affinity for one of the special mission units over the other.
If you’re accusing me of playing favorites, then I should note my preference for the CIA’s paramilitary operators.
That said, I’m not vying for their inclusion for the same reason—allowing each organization to focus on a singular task and purpose fosters unity of effort and clear lines of command.
What you’re proposing is an incredibly complex operation the likes of which has only been attempted once before.
I believe that where we can simplify, we should. ”
As he intended, Stansfield’s allusion to another complex operation undertaken in the Middle East resurrected memories that he was sure the military members at least would have rather left buried. Even the president scowled, indicating that Stansfield’s reference had landed with everyone.
Or at least almost everyone.
“What operation?”
The question was voiced by the president’s chief of staff, Christi Hawkins.
The woman might be a natural when it came to the political, but for matters of defense, she was perpetually out of her league.
Stansfield had considered lobbying the president to bar her from the briefing because her inane questions tended to muddy the waters, but he hadn’t for precisely this reason.
Sometimes it was good to have an ignoramus in the audience.
If harnessed correctly, the person could be used to ask questions the rest of the attendees would rather not answer.
After forty years in the intelligence service, Stansfield knew how to harness people.
“Not Iraq, Iran,” General Dan Rogers said. “I believe Director Stansfield was referencing Operation Eagle Claw.”
“That was a fiasco,” the president said, his tone significantly less jovial than before. “You really think this operation is on the same level?”
Stansfield caught the chairman of the Joint Chiefs’ scowl, but he kept his attention on the president.
He certainly could understand Rogers’s unhappiness.
The Air Force officer’s briefing had already been interrupted once.
Just minutes into his first chart, Rogers had to stop after a messenger entered the room with news—Kuwait’s sole female ambassador had just been assassinated while giving a talk in Rome.
Understandably, it had taken a bit to get back to the chairman’s briefing.
Now, more than an hour and a half and over fifty charts later, Stansfield was implying that Rogers’s plan should be lumped into the same category as the catastrophic failure that had helped make Jimmy Carter a one-term president. He could see why Rogers wasn’t happy.
But that was too bad.
Stansfield wasn’t here to make friends. What should have been a fairly straightforward raid had become something much more complex and high-risk thanks to the age-old killer of men.
Mission creep.
Mission creep that the president had initiated and the chairman had failed to contain.
While the president was the nation’s commander in chief, he had military advisors for a reason.
Stansfield didn’t subscribe to the idea that he should ever tell his boss no, but he did believe it was his responsibility to ensure the president understood all the caveats that went with a yes.
This operation had caveats aplenty.
“Sir, I understand your desire to present a smoking gun to the UN,” Stansfield said.
“Since the Soviet Union disbanded and the Iron Curtain fell, the Europeans have been doing their best to abandon any pretense of taking responsibility for their own defense in favor of allocating more and more money toward their generous social welfare programs. Concrete proof that Hussein has not destroyed his weapons of mass destruction as per his treaty obligations might go a long way toward convincing our allies to pull their collective heads out of the sand.”
“I sense a looming but,” the president said.
Stansfield smiled. “But the requirement to obtain samples of the convoy’s chemical weapons exponentially escalates our operation’s complexity and risk.
Ninety percent of the effort is now geared toward setting the conditions for the C-130s to land in order to load one of the trucks carrying chemical munitions.
This transforms what would have been a medium-risk operation into a high-risk one for what I believe are negligible benefits. ”
“What do you mean negligible?” the president said, his earlier mirth long gone.
“We know the Iraqis still have chemical weapons. At this point, our European allies either know this as well and are playing both sides at the UN so as not to jeopardize their lucrative business contracts with the Iraqi government, or they just don’t care.
Either way, I think everyone who matters has already made up their mind.
If we bring back concrete evidence, those who currently back us will still agree and those that don’t will find a way to dismiss what we’ve uncovered.
We are risking much to accomplish little. ”
The president stared at Stansfield for a long moment.
The air temperature seemed to plummet in the ensuing silence.
Stansfield endured the president’s scrutiny without discomfort.
While he would have loved to continue guiding the agency, if the president asked for his resignation, he would tender it.
He could do worse than be fired for telling the truth.
“I don’t disagree with your analysis,” the president finally said, “but you’ve neglected to mention a rather important set of stakeholders—the American people.
Even if we just bomb the convoy and call it a day, there’s a risk that our pilots will be lost in the process.
Add to that the recent polling that suggests our countrymen are souring on our continued enforcement of the no-fly areas and our strikes on Iraqi radar installations.
I want to justify my policies to my voters, and nothing says we were right like holding a vial of mustard gas as I give the next State of the Union. ”
This image stirred Hawkins to life. The woman leaned forward in her seat and opened her mouth. The president held up a hand before she could speak.
“I’m exaggerating, Christi. But only slightly.
We’re doing it my way because I want Hussein worried that we might just show up to the UN with his poison in a vial.
Or better yet, offer the EU the chance to send their scientists to our laboratory to analyze the specimens themselves.
I want Hussein lying awake at night reviewing how we were able to pull off such an audacious operation right under his nose.
I want him wondering what else we might be able to pull off. Do you understand, Thomas?”
Stansfield nodded. “I do, sir.”
He did understand.
He still didn’t agree with the president’s course of action, but he had a better grasp on the man’s motivation.
Not that whether he agreed with the commander in chief’s decision mattered.
Stansfield had laid out the risks associated with the proposed operation in no uncertain terms. Now his job was to execute.
“And it’s not the UN that I’m most concerned with,” the president continued. “It’s the celebration ceremony in Kuwait.”
As if the conversation had just transitioned to a language she could understand, Hawkins leaned forward again. Making eye contact with the president around Chairman Rogers, the chief of staff tapped a manicured fingernail on the binder resting in front of her.
“I thought we decided you weren’t attending that, sir,” Hawkins said.
The president frowned. “I said I was on the fence about attending. I’m not on the fence any longer.”
“Why?” Hawkins said.
“The Kuwaiti ambassador. She was a symbol of what was going right in the Arab world. A sign of progress, and a bunch of jihadi bastards killed her for it. I’m going to Kuwait to honor her and because it will give me the opportunity to drop a truth bomb on the Desert Storm coalition members.
We might have liberated Kuwait, but we sure as hell haven’t contained Hussein. Understood?”
Though he addressed the question to Hawkins, Stansfield knew the president was speaking to everyone, and he added his yes, sir to the others from around the table.
“Good,” the president said. “Director Stansfield, perhaps you could update us on how things are progressing from your end.”
“Of course,” Stansfield said. “We are in the process of placing an agent in Iraq who will be able to provide real-time updates on the convoy’s progress.”
The president inclined his head, apparently satisfied with Stansfield’s admittedly high-level summary of Rapp’s role. Judging by his grimace, the same could not be said of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“This asset,” Rogers said. “Could you speak to his operational history?”
Stansfield shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We have spent years cultivating BUCKEYE to ensure he would one day possess the required access for an operation such as this one. The asset’s identity is only known to a handful of people.”
“I understand operational security,” Rogers said, “but there’s a hell of a lot riding on your asset, including the lives of forty SEALs, not to mention the aircrews that will be flying them into harm’s way.”
A low murmur greeted the chairman’s words as the other military personnel voiced similar sentiments.
Worse still from Stansfield’s point of view, the president’s concerned look seemed to indicate that he agreed with the general.
While he didn’t intend to reveal Rapp’s identity regardless of what the president dictated, Stansfield wanted to avoid misleading his boss if possible.
These things had a way of bubbling to the surface, and while he knew there would probably be times when he would have to outright lie to his commander in chief, Stansfield was hoping to save those fabrications for situations in which the president would need plausible deniability.
“How about this?” Stansfield said, talking over the murmur. “I’ll embed one of my paramilitary officers with your SEALs. They’ll serve as the liaison between you and the CIA. Everything BUCKEYE knows you’ll get in real time. Is that acceptable?”
Rogers rubbed his chin and then slowly nodded. “As long as the SEAL CO is good with it, I am. We’re putting a lot of trust in your asset, Director. I hope this BUCKEYE is as good as you say he is.”
So did Stansfield.