Jack Coughlin - Kill Zone

“No war, and a public statement of appreciation for their assistance.”

The Vice President jotted the terms on his legal pad. “Sounds good to me. Any objections?” No one opposed the idea. “I will pass our recommendation along to the President. State, you tell the Syrians that if our men are harmed in any way, if this is a trap, the price for such treachery will be very steep indeed.”

Murmurs of agreement around the table. “That’s it, then. Get back to work.” As he walked back to his office, he put his hand on the elbow of the chief of his Secret Service protective detail and drew him close. “Jim. I want you boys to find Gerald Buchanan and fetch him to me as soon as possible.”

“Sorry, sir, that’s not our job description.”

“Oh, hell, Jim, I know that,” said the Vice President. “You’re a bright boy. You’ll think of something. Just get his fat butt in here.”

If Buchanan thinks I’m going to stick around and take this rap by myself, he’s crazy. Sam Shafer went to the front hall, the thick soles of his polished shoes beating a tattoo on the marble, and signed out at the Secret Service desk. Then he walked down the long driveway and out the front gate of the White House, trying not to run, and cut across the open plaza into downtown Washington. Within two blocks, he hailed a taxi. “Reagan National,” he told the driver.

As the cab crossed the Potomac, Shafer dialed his cell phone and Gordon Gates answered on the first ring. “He’s gone,” Shafer said.

“I expected it. Buchanan has the balls of a hamster,” Gates replied. “You get on up to New York like we talked about and someone will meet your plane. Welcome to the Sharks, Sam.”

AN ARMED PERIMETER OFguards surrounded Air Force One as it stood alone on the tarmac of Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota at five o’clock in the morning. The President of the United States was as safe there as if he had been in a reinforced bunker two hundred feet underground. The base was isolated ten miles from the town of Minot, not far from the Canadian border, and even under normal conditions, security was always tight there. A hundred and fifty Minuteman ICBM missiles were buried in silos around the home base of the 5th Bomb Wing and the 91st Space Wing. Many of Minot’s B-52H bombers carrying Air Launched Cruise Missiles were in the air. They were just drops in the bucket of what the President could throw at Syria if he decided to do so.

He was a quiet, thoughtful man, but during his three years in office, his dark hair had gone gray because of situations just like this. He read the note that General Henry Turner, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had given him. The words THE WHITE HOUSE were printed in blue across the top. Turner and a marine colonel who looked like he had been up all night sat in big chairs across from the desk in the plane’s spacious office. “I did not order this,” the President said. “This is the first time I have seen this extraordinary piece of paper.”

“Never thought you did order it, Mr. President,” answered Turner. “That’s why I interrupted your itinerary to personally bring it to you. That is, however, Gerald Buchanan’s name scrawled on the bottom.”

The President passed the note to several other key people in the cabin. His chief of staff asked, “Why would he do this, General?”

Turner rubbed his hands together in thought. “Colonel Sims and I have been pondering the same thing. The kidnapping of General Middleton had to have some motive, and the most obvious one was probably to trigger a confrontation between us and Syria, which happened. This note indicates a deeper motive, so the confrontation might just have been cover. He says plain as day that if Middleton cannot be rescued, he should be killed. Why? We had no reason to think that the Force Recon team would not be successful. They ran into bad luck, that’s all, or otherwise Middleton would be out of Syria by now. So why send one of the best snipers in the Marine Corps to make sure the general was dead? My conclusion is that Mr. Buchanan knew the rescue was doomed to failure anyway. Why… and how?”

The President tilted far back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Colonel Sims, do you think our rescue attempt was compromised?”

“Yes, sir. We had a good plan, we had good men, and the odds were overwhelmingly in our favor to be successful. We practice it all the time and use the same package to pick up downed pilots. I agree with General Turner. It looks like Mr. Buchanan had advance information that the mission was going to run into trouble.”

“It’s difficult to swallow. I’ve known Gerry Buchanan for years. He has always been rock-solid in giving me accurate advice. This just makes no sense.”

The chief of staff spoke again: “Gerry is the only person who can answer these questions, Mr. President. Personal friendships aside, I suggest that we have him detained and questioned.”

“The Vice President told me a little while ago that he has given a similar order. Buchanan did not show up for the National Security Council meeting.” The President, who had been a university president before going into the Senate and then into the White House, was known for his logical and scholarly mind, and always seemed a half-step ahead of everybody else. “Let’s put it into context. Buchanan told me to ratchet up the alert status, and now I can no longer believe his counsel, nor his actions. Although we have had attacks on our soil, they have not been traced to any terrorists. I think the red alert was a diversion, part of some larger plan. The first thing we need do is loosen the tension beyond our borders. And we take the Syrian deal to help get Middleton released unharmed.”

Turner looked surprised. He had not heard of any deal.

“That offer came in a little while ago, Hank. I got the call about the time you were landing. Good news on that, at least. State is working out the details. Now your rescue team can go in without guns blazing. I think the Syrian crisis has passed, thank the Lord. Now we are going to find out what, and who, is behind all of this.”

“Awwright!” drawled Turner. Colonel Sims relaxed for the first time since the original mission briefing. It was almost over.

There was only one woman in the cabin, and the President locked his eyes on Senator Ruth Hazel Reed. “Well, Senator, it looks like General Middleton will be back in time for your committee hearing on the military privatization bill next week after all.”

She had flown by corporate jet to her hometown of San Diego to bask in the President’s popularity there and gather campaign donations, then joined him on Air Force One for the return trip to Washington. “Yes, Mr. President,” she said. “I did not want to be without his expertise. This is wonderful news. He will need time to recover from his terrible ordeal, so I will postpone that hearing for a while.” She glanced at General Turner, who smirked.

The President stood up and extended his hand to Ralph Sims. “Colonel, you did a courageous thing to get this out in the open. You are not under arrest or suspicion of any wrongdoing whatsoever. Go over to the visiting officers’ quarters and get some sleep, and a plane will be waiting to take you back to the MEU tomorrow. Good job.”

Then he shook the hand of General Turner. “Hank, see if you can still make that meeting in Beijing. We can handle the rest of this thing from here.” He looked around the room. “Thank you all very much for your help during this crisis. Now if you will excuse us, I would like a private moment with Senator Reed.”

Ten minutes later, Ruth Hazel Reed hurried down the stairs of Air Force One. The master sergeant guarding the bottom of the stairway saw that her cheeks were bright red. As she ducked into a waiting staff car, she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.