Mission Compromised (20 page)

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Old Executive Office Building

Washington, D.C.

Wednesday, 30 November 1994

1905 Hours, Local

 

In Washington's heavy rush-hour traffic, it took Newman, McDade, Robertson, and Coombs more than an hour to make the trip from Andrews back to the White House for their meeting with Harrod. By the time they had completed the day with Joshua Weiskopf and his thirty-seven ISEG operators, Newman had developed the outline of a plan for training, deploying, supporting, and communicating with the force, and he told them that he aimed to have it approved at the White House before the unit returned to Fort Bragg.

Prior to departing Andrews, Newman told Weiskopf and the others how he planned to structure his tiny headquarters: Coombs, who had been part of Delta before his exile to the White House, would be his operations and training boss—the S-3 for this outfit. Robertson, the Air Force officer, would manage all logistics and transportation requirements—the S-4 for the ISEG—because, Newman reasoned, the USAF would have to be the ones to move the unit to wherever it was going to be used. And he put McDade, the frustrated Navy SEAL, in charge of intelligence and communications—combining the S-2 and S-5 functions.

Five minutes after the four officers arrived at their office in the OEOB and gathered around Newman's round conference table, there was a furious banging on the thick wooden door at the entrance to
their office suite. They looked at one another and shrugged. McDade, who was closest to the door, got up and opened it to the full wrath of Jabba the Hutt.

“Where have you guys been?!” the National Security Advisor shouted. He was wearing a tuxedo, and to the four physically fit military officers, their boss looked like an obese penguin on the verge of what doctors would call a major cardiac event.

Behind the red-faced penguin, standing in the ornate, marble-tiled hallway, were half a dozen young men and one young woman, all wearing dark-blue coveralls. Three of them were leaning against four-wheeled steel carts like those used by baggage handlers at airports. The carts were stacked high with cardboard boxes and what appeared to be a mobile electronics shop.

“These people are from WHCA, and this is your communications equipment. I told you yesterday to be back here at seven. Where have you been?” Harrod demanded.

All four of the military men looked at their watches simultaneously. It was not yet ten minutes after the hour. “Sorry, sir,” Newman said, stepping between the penguin and McDade, “we just got back from Andrews.”

“Don't call me ‘sir.' I don't care where you just got back from! I'm late for a dinner the President is giving for the diplomatic corps, and I'm tired of waiting around for people who can't tell time.”

When no one said anything in response, Harrod turned to the blue-clad WHCA techs and practically screamed, “Don't just stand there; get to work! Do you think I want to hang around with you people all night?”

The technicians began to unload the equipment and carry the components into the suite: computer terminals, a secure fax machine,
encryption equipment, secure phones, and radio repeaters. Some of it went into Newman's office, and the rest went up the circular staircase to where Coombs, McDade, and Robertson officed.

“While they install this equipment, the four of you come over to the Situation Room so we can talk,” said the National Security Advisor in a tone that proved he could calm down as quickly as his mercurial temper could be set off.

Harrod led the way to the elevator, out the ground floor door, and across West Executive Avenue into the West Wing. The four officers followed the penguin like his chicks. He didn't speak again until they were inside the Situation Room conference space. “Sit down. I want a full report on what you saw at Andrews today, your assessment on how ready this unit is, and what you think about their ability to carry out the UN mandate.”

For the next hour, the man who had been in such a hurry to join the black-tie diplomatic party going on upstairs in the White House sat and alternately listened and interrupted the four military men with questions. Newman related how he planned to organize his office, the responsibilities he'd given to his three colleagues, and told Harrod about the additional training he planned for the ISEG.

At precisely 8:00, the Situation Room watch chief knocked on the conference room door and said, “Dr. Harrod, the President called down to ask if you will be joining them upstairs for dinner.”

Harrod rose and said to the watch officer, “Tell him I'll be right up.” Then turning to Newman and the other three, he said, “I have to go. The ISEG people will wrap up their D.C. briefings on Friday. They should then move back down to Fort Bragg and get out of here before they attract more attention. I have told the UN that they will be ready for operations in thirty days.”

Newman stood up and interrupted. “That's not long enough. They have only been together for two weeks. They need to be able to do a whole lot more work together before they get thrown into something like chasing after Aidid. Furthermore, they can't just go from here to someplace like Somalia without getting acclimated.”

Harrod stood quietly for a moment, contemplating Newman's walk to the edge of insubordination. Coombs, McDade, and Robertson sat in their places, contemplating the grain in the tabletop while awaiting the explosion.

Instead, Harrod replied quietly, almost in a whisper, “Thirty days. That's all you've got. If Fort Bragg isn't good enough, figure out where else they have to go to get ready. Then get them there and work them as long as they and their mission are not compromised. If they need additional equipment, go get it. I want them ready to go before the first of the year. The UN and the President want results, not excuses. Now, I have other things to do besides baby-sitting the four of you. The WHCA people should be finished by now. Go back to your office and figure out what needs to be done—and go do it.”

The four officers stood as Harrod turned to leave; but when he opened the door, Jabba stopped, turned, and said, “By the way, Newman, the secretary of defense called me this afternoon and told me that your Marine Corps selection board has decided that you should be a lieutenant colonel.” With that, the National Security Advisor departed for the diplomatic reception.

 

 

On the way back across to the OEOB, Newman was congratulated by his three colleagues with backslaps and ribald good humor. When the four officers punched in the security codes and reentered the office
space they had left an hour before, they found that the WHCA technicians had all departed except for the warrant officer who had headed the installation team. In short order, he gave each man an inventory sheet, walked them through their spaces to show them what had been installed and where, and had them sign for every piece of it. Once he had officiously collected all their signature sheets, he walked to the door. “Thank you, gentlemen. If you have any questions or problems, please call me. My extension is on your copies of the receipts. And remember, gentlemen, WHCA is here to serve the President.” And then he added cryptically, “We all have to do things we don't like to do. That's why we keep an eye on each other.”

 

TWA Flight 324, 27,500 Feet Alt

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56 Mi E of South Bend, IN

Wednesday, 30 November 1994

2030 Hours, Local

 

Rachel blamed her troubles on the Marines. “I'm clueless,” she had admitted to her friend and fellow flight attendant Sandy when things slowed down in the cabin and they could catch a short break in the rear galley. They had begun their day aboard a flight from San Diego to Chicago, switched to another aircraft, and then continued east to Dulles with a stop in Cleveland that afternoon.

Rachel shook her head. “I don't have any idea what Pete sees in the military—I really don't. I remember one day after we'd been married about two years when he came home from something called jump school—”

Sandy interrupted. “Jump school? You mean they have a school to teach guys how to jump? Like jump rope or something?” she laughed.

Rachel giggled. “That's
exactly
what I asked him!” she exclaimed. “He didn't like that much. He was really miffed until I got him to
explain. Jump school is where they learn how to parachute out of perfectly good airplanes!”

“Oh,” Sandy said. “Isn't that kind of dangerous?”

Rachel laughed again. “Well,
I
think so. But P. J. likes that macho stuff, you know? He
really
got mad when he came home that December and showed me the ‘jump wings' pin and emblem that he'd earned. He was so proud. And I spoiled everything by bursting out laughing as soon as I saw the pin. Boy, was he ever ticked!”

“What was so funny about it?” Sandy asked.

“Because,” Rachel replied, “the pin looked almost like this.” She picked up a cellophane bag with the words
Junior Pilot
on the front. Inside was a shiny, silvery pin for the flight attendants to hand out to little boys and girls who behave during the flight.

“All I could think of was someone pinning those jump wings on Pete and saying, ‘This is for being a good boy,'” Rachel said laughing.

“I'll bet that went over like a lead balloon,” Sandy observed. “What'd Pete say?”

“He never said a word—literally. He didn't speak to me for almost two weeks, even though I apologized all day, every day. Sandy, my problem is that I fell for a handsome guy in a uniform before I ever understood what his wearing that uniform meant. You and Tom have roots. Tom has a regular job. He comes home at night. You know your neighbors. You have friends where you live. We don't have
any
of that. Since we've been married, Pete has been gone more than he's been home. He proposed to me on the phone from Naples, Italy. A few months after we got married, he got shipped off again to the Middle East for six months. The Marines call it a ‘Med cruise.' Some cruise! He was home for awhile, and then they sent him off to Beirut, Lebanon—where terrorists killed all those Marines. Then he was in Honduras—
or somewhere in Central America—for months on end during all that Contra stuff. And then there was that thing in Panama. I couldn't believe that he actually
volunteered to
go to the Gulf War.”

“Didn't he get wounded in Kuwait?” interrupted Sandy.

“No, it was actually in Saudi Arabia, at a place called Khafji, with one of his ‘recon teams' that he loves so much. He was wounded when the Iraqi Army came across the border. They got trapped there when the Saudi Arabian Army retreated and P. J. and his nine guys stayed behind, surrounded, to ‘call in fire,' whatever that means.”

Sandy was wide-eyed. “Didn't he tell you about it?”

“No,” replied Rachel, looking downcast. “He
never
talks about it. I didn't even know he'd been wounded. He had given instructions that he didn't want ‘next of kin'—that's what they call
me
in the Marines—to be notified. The only reason I know any of this is because he was given a medal at a parade when he got back home to Camp Lejeune and they read some kind of a citation. That's how I found out that he had almost been killed!”

“Was it an important medal?” asked Sandy.

“I guess so. There were a whole bunch of generals and admirals there making a big fuss over him. His dad came down from New York and wore his uniform, and his mom said that the Navy Cross was like the Distinguished Service Cross in the Army. P. J.'s brother Jim was there in his uniform, and he told me that their dad got a DSC in the Korean War. And I had to ask him, ‘What's a DSC?' And when he told me, I was so embarrassed because the Navy Cross and the Distinguished Service Cross are second only to the Medal of Honor.”

“That must have made you very proud of Peter,” said Sandy, trying to be helpful.

“You know, Sandy, I don't know what I felt,” said Rachel, her eyes brimming with tears. “It was obvious that everyone there was making a big fuss over this medal and what P. J. had done. His dad was so proud. But I was so mad that Peter hadn't let me know anything about what had happened to him, or how close I had come to losing him, that I just felt empty. If his brother hadn't been there, I would have been lost. I could at least
talk
to Jim. Sometimes when P. J. was gone somewhere, I would call Jim just to get reassurance. I really miss his brother. He used to tell me, ‘Rache, P. J. loves you. He just doesn't want you to worry.' And now Jim's dead, and I don't have anyone to talk to.” At this, two tears streaked down Rachel's cheeks.

Sandy put her arm around her friend as they stood there in the galley of the aircraft. “Honey, there must be a reason why God kept P. J. alive through all of that. And there must be a reason why you guys are still together after all you've been through.”

Rachel dabbed her eyes and after a moment said, “I must be a sight. I'll scare the passengers if they see me like this.” She went into the lavatory across from the galley and washed her face, reapplied some makeup, and brushed her hair. When she came back out, Sandy had just returned from providing a blanket for one of the passengers.