W. Griffin - The Hostage

That was not exactly the truth. The President believed both that what he did in the privacy of his home was nobody's business but his own, and furthermore, that he had the right to decree what was an official event and what was not.

The diaries of the secretary of Homeland Security, the director of Central Intelligence, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the commander in chief of U.S. Central Command for the same period, however, all reported they had spent periods of from two to five hours on Saturday 18 June at a location variously described as the "Carolina White House"; the "Presidential Residence"; or "Hilton Head."

All but Secretary Hall of Homeland Security were sitting in upholstered white wicker armchairs drinking beer with the President when the first of the helicopters, a glistening blue twin-engine Air Force Huey, made its approach to the lawn between the house and the Atlantic Ocean and fluttered down.

John Powell, the DCI, and Mark Schmidt, the director of the FBI, were in business suits, and General Allan Naylor, C-in-C Central Command, was in uniform. The Presidentwas wearing a white shirt with the cuffs turned up, a necktie pulled down, khaki trousers, and loafers.

An Air Force colonel in a summer-weight uniform got out of the helicopter, reached back inside to pick up a small soft-sided suitcase, and then followed one of the Secret Service Presidential Detail agents to the awning-shaded verandah of the house.

The President shook the hand of Colonel Jacob D. Torine, USAF, then handed him a bottle of beer. Then they watched as another Huey-this one a single-engine Army helicopter painted a dull olive drab-made its approach over the sea and landed.

A large man in a business suit and an Army officer, a major in a summer-weight uniform, got out and followed another Secret Service agent to the verandah.

"Better late than never, right, Tom?" the President greeted Secretary Hall.

"Mr. President, we're ten minutes early," Hall said.

"How are you, Charley?" the President said to Major (Promotable) C. G. Castillo, Special Forces, USA, offering him his hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Castillo said.

"Well, let's get this over with," the President said. "Then you two can get out of those uniforms."

He turned to look at a door of the house. Three men were already coming onto the verandah. One held two blue leather-covered boxes about eight inches by three. The second held a Nikon digital camera, and the third a suit jacket.

The President folded down his cuffs, buttoned them, buttoned his collar, pulled the necktie into place, and then put his arms into the suit jacket.

"Do not get the khaki pants in the picture," the President said to the photographer, then asked, "Where do you want us?"

"Against the wall would be fine, Mr. President."

"You're about to be decorated," the President said. "You've heard I've had a problem with this?"

"Yes, sir," Torine and Castillo said, almost in chorus.

"Well, let me tell the story again, for the benefit of Director Schmidt and Director Powell. There is no question in my mind that what these two officers did merits a higher decoration than the Distinguished Flying Cross. When they found that 727 that no one else seemed to be able to find, and then stole it back, they saved the lives of God only knows how many people, and prevented chaos and panic in Philadelphia and across the nation. Not quite as important, but nearly so, they sent a message to like-minded lunatics that the United States possesses military force and intelligence resources that can stop what we have to admit was a pretty clever plan.

"Unfortunately, to award them a medal for valor-my initial thought was the Distinguished Service Cross-there has to be a citation to accompany the decoration. Since their activities were of a covert nature, acting on a Presidential Finding that certain actions were necessary, a citation describing what they have done would make that Presidential Finding public. That's not in the best interests of the nation. General Naylor pointed out to me, too, that a citation saying nothing more specific than 'actions of a classified and covert nature' would come to the attention of one or more Congressional oversight committees who would demand to know just what the hell was going on. The result would be the same. The story would be all over the Washington Post and the New York Times.

"So they don't get the decoration they deserve and I would really like to see them have. General Naylor also suggested that what they did could honestly be described as 'participating with the highest degree of professionalism in aerial flight under exceedingly hazardous conditions.' So that's what the citations on the DFCs say."

He looked at the directors of the FBI and the CIA.

"These pictures will not be released to the press, but when Charley and Colonel Torine look at them in years to come, I'd like them to be able to recall the award was made with you two-and you, too, Tom, of course-looking on.

"Come on, up against the wall. General, will you read the orders, please?"

The FBI director and the DCI with absolutely no enthusiasm got out of their white wicker armchairs.

General Naylor waited until the photographer had lined everybody up, and then began to read: "Attention to orders. Headquarters, Department of the Air Force, Washington, D.C. 18 June 2005. Subject: Award of the Distinguished Flying Cross. The Distinguished Flying Cross, thirteenth award, is awarded to Colonel Jacob…" "Much better, Charley," the President said, in reference to what Castillo was now wearing, a polo shirt, khaki trousers, and boat shoes. "Now sit down, have a beer, and tell me what I can do for you."

The President saw the look on Castillo's face.

"Why do I think I'm going to regret that offer?" the President asked.

Castillo didn't reply.

"Come on, Charley, what's on your mind?" the President pursued.

General Naylor's face was frozen.

"There's two things, Mr. President," Castillo said. "We would never have located that airplane without Mr. Pevsner."

"That's the Russian gangster?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do you want me to do, Charley?" the President asked, more than a little sarcastically. "Pardon him? I don't think I can do that. I think we're the only country in the Western world who doesn't have a warrant out for him."

"Sir, he has intelligence sources we, self-evidently, don't have. I'd really like to… to suggest that the government should maintain a relationship with him."

"For God's sake, Castillo," FBI Director Mark Schmidt exploded, "that Russian bastard's got a record that makes John Gotti look like a Boy Scout."

"And he has intelligence sources we just don't have," Castillo repeated evenly. "And which he has proved willing to make available to us."

"He's got a point, Mark," the President said. "How would we do what you suggest, Charley? What does this guy want?"

"He wants the CIA off his back, sir. Right or wrong, he suspects that since they have stopped using him, they-"

"Hold it right there," the President interrupted. "'Stopped using him'? The CIA's been using him?" He looked at the DCI. "Tell me about that, John."

The DCI looked uncomfortable.

"On several occasions, Mr. President," he said, "Operations has covertly dealt with Pevsner, chartered his aircraft to deliver certain things where they were needed-"

"How about 'frequently dealt' with him?" Castillo interrupted, earning an immediate glower from the DCI.

"To deliver the weapons and other goodies they bought from him?" Castillo went on.

The President looked at Castillo, and then at the DCI and waited for him to go on.

"There were some transactions of that nature, Mr. President," the DCI admitted. "But that's in the past. I've ordered that all connections with this character be severed."