John Nance - Headwind

“You haven’t escaped in any event, have you? You’re still here, just a short distance away from where I’m standing.”

“Don’t create a diplomatic confrontation, Stuart. You can’t win it. It didn’t work for you fifteen years ago, and it won’t work now.”

“That was then; this is now. You’ve certainly assumed a cocky attitude for a Republican asking a Democratic President to rescue him. Your faith in President Cavanaugh is misplaced. Surely you know that.”

“Sitting American Presidents, as a rule, are disinclined to see former American Presidents mistreated, arrested, or subjected to show trials. Good day, Stuart. Contact Mr. Jay Reinhart, my attorney, for any further discussion.” He passed the number in Wyoming and disconnected before getting out of the copilot’s seat and returning to his seat, visibly angry.

“What was that about?” Sherry asked, but he waved her off, his mind increasingly consumed with remembering everything he could about the events leading to the disastrous Peruvian raid.

“It’s just a matter of minutes now, sir,” Sherry was saying.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “It’d better be, Sherry. I really want out of here.”

President Jake Cavanaugh burst through the east door of the Oval Office and moved immediately to the front of his desk, motioning to the Press Secretary to turn down the volume on the television.

“Okay, everyone, what do I need to know before we get Harris out of there?”

Jack Rollins had been standing beside the desk when the President entered. He caught the President’s eye and pointed to the screen.

“Take a look, sir. We’ve got it in living color, playing for a worldwide audience.”

The President turned and moved toward the TV, his arms folded. “What am I looking at? CNN?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Rollins briefed him on the line of soldiers and vehicles waiting just behind a now-open gate to the Sigonella Naval Air Station flight line, and the fact that the Navy commander was ready to escort President Harris to the Air Force craft.

The President turned to survey the room, counting noses one by one.

“Where’s Langley?”

“The Director is on his way here from New York, and I didn’t press Langley to send the Deputy Director,” Rollins answered.

“We need them in on this as soon as possible.” He looked at Jack Rollins and shook his head as he gestured to the television. “Obviously, with CNN providing the pictures we don’t need the National Reconnaissance Office.”

“Different world, isn’t it?” Rollins agreed.

“What are the Italians saying?” the President asked, turning to single out Assistant Secretary of State Rudy Baker, who was by the couch folding a cell phone.

“Sir, they’ve sent a formal request to our ambassador asking for our permission to let the Italian Carabinieri gain access to that flight line for the purpose of serving the warrant and making their arrest. Interestingly enough, the Italian government is pretending that they do not have the legal right under the lease to enter the flight line. They have to know better, so they’re buying us time. They obviously don’t want this party in their back yard.”

“Some party,” the President growled. “So we’re not going to screw up relations with Rome by plucking Harris out of there?” he asked.

“No, sir. Not substantively.”

“Is the Secretary of State up to speed?”

“Yes, sir,” Baker replied. “He’s airborne over some godforsaken corner of Australia right now, but I briefed him fully and he concurs that they’re purposefully giving us a window to get Harris out of Italy. That doesn’t mean Rome won’t scream and cry and rattle our cage in public for a while, but it will have no impact on keeping the base.”

“That would worry me if the Status of Forces Agreement for that base were in trouble,” the President said.

“We do not want to lose that base, Mr. President,” General Davidsen confirmed. “I’m relaying that for the Joint Chiefs, sir.”

The President nodded as Diane Beecher sounded an alarm from behind his desk where she’d been watching the TV screen. “Someone’s moving a vehicle through that gate!”

The President turned to the screen as he gave a “wait” gesture to the general. “That looks like a single car. A staff car, maybe?”

“Could be, sir,” Beecher said. “The other vehicles in that line are still sitting there.”

“What are my options, Jack?” The President asked the Chief of Staff.

“One, you give the word, and we pull him out right here, right now. Two, we stall while we arm-twist the Italians to ignore their treaty obligations and let him leave on some chartered aircraft, since there’s no civilian airline service there. Three, we do absolutely nothing right now, leave him to be arrested without apparent American intervention, and then use Justice and State to try our best to help quash that warrant and get him released through the normal legal process under the treaty. Four, we do nothing at all now or later and let it take whatever legal course it will.”

“Option four is nonsense, Jack.”

“You asked for all options, and we’ve had this discussion before, sir.”

“Is there anything to accomplish by stalling and talking?” the President asked, turning to the group. “Anyone?”

Rudy Baker sighed and shook his head. “No, Mr. President.”

“That leaves me with two options. To rescue or not to rescue.” President Cavanaugh stood in silence for a moment, his eyes wandering to the far wall before looking at Jack Rollins again. “How do I do this?”

“What do you mean, sir? Get him out?”

“Yes. If I’m ready, and I think I am, what do I do?”

“Just tell me it’s a ‘go,’ Mr. President,” General Davidsen said quickly, gesturing with the phone. “I’ve got Captain Swanson on the line, and the C-17 aircraft commander holding, sir. The second you tell me, we’ll move. President Harris is waiting at the door of the 737 as we speak.”

“Okay,” the President said, turning to the others, “I think we should do it. Let’s get him out of there.”

The President turned toward General Davidsen as a voice rang out from the other side of the room.

“Just a minute, Mr. President.”

The National Security Advisor, Michael Goldboro, stood suddenly from where he’d been sitting near the fireplace. The President turned, puzzled, before seeing Goldboro, who moved forward slightly, his head cocked. The general turned as well, alarm showing on his face. “We’re out of time, sir,” the general said.

Once again the President’s right hand went up in a “wait” gesture to the general as his eyes fixed on Michael Goldboro.

“What is it, Mike?”

“This would be a mistake, Mr. President,” Goldboro said in a calm tone of voice. There had been a few other murmurs of conversation in the room, but they all ceased as everyone’s attention turned to Goldboro.

“Explain, please,” the chief executive said.

“Consider what message we’ll be sending to the world if we whisk President Harris out of harm’s way in a United States Air Force military aircraft. We’re saying that the Treaty Against Torture should be used against an Augusto Pinochet, or perhaps a Saddam Hussein, but it doesn’t apply to American leaders.”

“That’s ridiculous!” General Davidsen began, but the President cut him off with a quick look.

“This warrant is ridiculous, Mike,” the President replied. “We’re saving an American President from a bogus warrant and a trap.”

“Does the rest of the world know that, sir? Has the legal process under that treaty we signed run its course and made the determination that there is no legal merit to that warrant? I know that’s a rhetorical question, but it’s a vital one.”