Ashes of Victory

— 4 —

Arriving at the isolated retreat Friday afternoon, DNI Hartwell Prost, feeling almost uncomfortable in L.L. Bean khakis and a collared button-down, met up with President Cord Macklin, casually dressed in a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and black cowboy boots. They went for a walk along the trout stream.

“Big Mac’s by the river,” reported Keith Okimoto, dressed in a dark sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. Other agents dressed in full camo gear were no doubt also present but unseen.

The Secret Service detail kept a respectful distance as they reached a pair of Adirondack chairs a dozen feet from the babbling waters and sat down. Prost had a large, brown-paper shopping bag from which he began pulling bags branded with McDonald’s Golden Arches. The president’s code name hadn’t originated just with his last name. Actual Big Macs were the president’s favorite meal… when the first lady wasn’t around.

“Damn, Hart, how’d you pull this off? Closest one’s six miles away in Thurmont,” he said, digging into one of the bags.

“Best if you don’t know, sir. Plausible deniability.”

Macklin laughed. “Man, the fries are even still hot.”

Prost shrugged. “Being DNI has its benefits, sir.”

A few Baltimore orioles flushed from the cover of a nearby shade tree, catching the president’s eye as he unwrapped the Big Mac and took a hearty bite. Prost did the same.

“Pretty pathetic when you think about it,” the president said after swallowing and taking a sip of his chocolate shake. “The most powerful man on the planet sneaking around eating burgers for fear of his health nut of a wife. But the hell with it. Love these things.”

“Could be worse, sir.”

“How’s that?”

“You could be sneaking around doing other things… like some of your predecessors.”

Macklin almost choked, then laughed again.

After eating and having the Secret Service detail remove all evidence, the president reached into his pocket and pulled out two cigars, offering one to Prost. “The Russian ambassador claims he gets them from the same factory that made Castro’s.”

“So, this is how the other half lives,” Prost replied, bringing it under his nose and inhaling. “Thank you, Mac.”

At the president’s insistence, outside of the fishbowl of the White House, Prost and other members of his senior staff took a more casual approach with the president. Macklin said, trimming the end of his cigar with an old pocketknife, “The doctor says I should give these up. Says they aren’t good for me.” Macklin smiled and handed the knife to Prost, who made quick work of trimming his own cigar.

“Things in life that we really enjoy rarely are,” Prost replied. “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.”

“Well, at least I still get to listen to the Stones and even Meat Loaf, so two out of three ain’t bad,” the president replied, and Prost chuckled.

“So, what’s the BDA on the Yemen strike?” the president asked, referring to the bomb-damage assessment.

“Video from the Predator indicated we hit the camp dead center. Satellite imagery shows nothing but debris. There’s no evidence of survivors. It will be released on YouTube shortly.”

“Good.”

“And looks like Blevins delivered on his promise,” Prost said, referring to the carrier deployment plan.

“He did. And he even included a strike package.”

“That’s right. Multiple targets in Iran, Syria, and Lebanon. We’re also continuing to build the target list.”

“Already included in my address tonight. The networks have been notified. We’ll strike selected targets as I speak and in the hours following. You’re welcome to watch it live at the lodge.”

Prost frowned. “Thanks, sir, but it’s a long drive back to DC, and I have to be back for the breakfast meeting. I’ll catch it on the radio on the way home. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Why don’t you spend the night, then? I’ll set you up.”

“Thanks, sir, but you have enough on your plate to worry about—”

“Nonsense,” Macklin insisted. “It’s no trouble at all, and besides, that way you’ll be well rested. I need you at the top of your game tomorrow.”

“All right, Mac,” Prost finally said. “That would be great.”

The president lit his cigar and began puffing away, and Prost borrowed his lighter.

Macklin took a long pull on his cigar and blew three smoke rings in quick succession.

“About the strikes, sir… you don’t want to wait until Brad addresses the UN?”

“Hell no,” Macklin said flatly. “When terrorists attack us, we’re going to counterattack as rapidly as possible, UN-sanctioned or not.”

Leaning forward in his chair and talking around the cigar, Macklin spoke plainly. “You realize, of course, that no matter how many of the assholes we take out with our missile and drone strikes, we’re still not making any headway. And it’s killing us, both as a country and as a party. The American people didn’t sign up for a ‘forever war.’ They want a victory and to be done with it, which was what we accomplished in World War II. But we’ve never done it since. Korea was a stalemate; Vietnam was a pathetic loss. I was there. We got our asses kicked. And Iraq and Afghanistan are royal clusterfucks. We made life in Iraq worse for most of the people living there and allowed tribal and religious conflicts that had been held in check for decades to flare right up.

“Bottom line is that our strategy isn’t working. Sure, we’ve spent decades in Iraq and Afghanistan, but we spent — when you really think about it — over half a century in Europe and Japan. And we’re still there. Sure, it’s not a shooting war, but our presence in those countries has been a deterrent that we simply don’t have in the Middle East. They don’t want us there, and we can’t make them let us stay there. Sure, they’ll cry for help when shit hits the fan and we’ll come running, but we just aren’t there to stabilize and influence things the way we are in other countries. We’re just slapping Band-Aids on things and hoping the locals can keep them on long enough to stop the bleeding. But it isn’t working and really has never worked.”

Prost sat quietly, contemplating the president’s candid evaluation. “Hell, it’s not even just al-Qaeda and ISIS. Half the Saudi royal family is up to their necks in supporting terrorism, the Iranians are backing Hezbollah and Hamas, and the Palestinian Authority is too busy trying to figure out how to steal the aid we give them rather than finding ways to actually make peace with Israel. Shit, if the Israelis weren’t in the middle of it all, giving the Arabs all a common point to focus their hatred on, the tribes and factions would have torn each other apart by now.”

Prost raised his eyebrows and glanced over at the nearby Secret Service agents.

The president turned to face his senior agent. “Hey, Oki,” he said, “give us more space for a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Okimoto replied before speaking into his mic. “Big Mac’s requesting a little elbow room. Back out a hundred feet.” Like true samurais, the agents soon blended into the wooded surroundings.

“Look, Hart,” he added. “My dad fought in World War Two. Pacific Theater. He was on a ship that got hit by a kamikaze. When the troops hit the islands, the Japanese fought to the last man. On Iwo Jima, they had to use flamethrowers to burn them out of the caves they’d holed up in. To defeat them, it took a level of violence and cruelty that our generation can’t even start to conceive yet. The Battle of Okinawa resulted in almost 78,000 Japanese dead — over 100,000 if you count the natives they’d conscripted. Can you imagine if any one battle in the modern age resulted in that number of dead? But that’s what it took.

“Defeating terrorism worldwide has to go beyond Tomahawks and bombing compounds. My dad had to chase the bastards all over the Pacific islands. We have to stop being so damn surgical and figure out how to cut the head off the snake and kill the body so two new ones don’t grow.”

Macklin paused to smoke and stare at the stream.

“I think there might be a way,” Prost said, leaning forward. “Which is what I wanted to discuss.”

The cigar hanging from the edge of his mouth, the president regarded him for a moment before saying, “All right. You have my undivided attention.”

“Less than an hour ago, we received confirmation that the DC-9 airliner had been at La Aurora Airport in Guatemala City for the past four or five weeks. Ditto for the C-46.

“My people in Langley dubbed the DC-9 a phantom flyer, an illusory threat. A State Department official and scores of pilots, five of them Americans, said the planes had been there for a month. A local maintenance manager confirmed his company installed extra fuel tanks while the planes were there.”

The president stared at the burning end of his cigar. “Do you know anything about the pilots, where they came from?”

“No names yet, but one of the mechanics said they had Syrian passports and regularly prayed together. He said they were obviously Muslims.

“The pilots departed at night on what was reported to be a medical emergency flight.” Prost paused.

“And?” asked Macklin.

“There are two more planes, one at a second hangar at La Aurora, and another at a nearby private airstrip. Reports are that both have been fitted with extra fuel tanks.”

“Motherfu—”

“The planes are included in the strike package,” Prost said. “But there’s more. We’ve tracked ownership of the planes to an imports-exports company out of Panama that’s part of a Venezuelan oil consortium. After that, the money trail gets a little fuzzy but good enough for my analysts to follow the scent to a shipping company named Sino-Eastern Group, or SEG. And guess which real-estate mogul used to be its major shareholder?”

Macklin shrugged. “Donald Trump?”

Prost grinned. “Funny, but no. It was Saeed Shayhidi.”

Macklin lowered his cigar, and his brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“The planes tie back to a company that was created and used as a front by Shayhidi, the same terrorist mastermind we killed last year.”

“So, you’re saying he’s back from the dead?”

Prost shook his head. “Not unless he walks on water.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“Well, I think it’s what you just said. It’s a hydra effect.”

“Cut off a head and two more appear?”

“Something like that.” Prost took a drag and exhaled skyward. “After Shayhidi’s death, we dismantled his worldwide operation, froze assets, confiscated bank accounts, you name it. But only so far as we could reach. There were other holdings in the UK, Switzerland, Luxembourg, and France, where we left it to those governments to act.

“And they did. But physical assets are harder to deal with than money. The real estate and the companies he used as covers had to be sold.

“And as far as we can tell, whoever acquired SEG also backed the attack on Truman and is retrofitting two more planes.”

“And who’s that?”

“Don’t know yet, but will soon.”

“So, what do you know, Hart?”

“Well, for starters, that the NSA is currently decrypting a flurry of communications it intercepted on the dark web between the companies I’ve just mentioned. Like I said, we’ll know something concrete very soon.”

“So, let me see if I get this. We took down a major terrorist who used real companies as a front. Then we let the Brits or Swiss or whomever, dispose of those companies, and what happened is that they were simply bought by someone who has now attacked us? Is that accurate.”

Prost nodded. “Apparently.”

“Jesus H. Christ.” Macklin stood up, waving his cigar, and asked angrily, “Didn’t anyone vet the buyers?”

Prost shrugged. “It was out of our hands.”

“I am personally going to rip some new assholes on my next trip to Europe. In fact, I think I should schedule that trip as soon as possible.”

“I understand and I’d buy tickets to see that, but in the meantime, we have bigger issues.

“I think it’s a matter of days before we zero in on who was behind this attack, but my gut tells me that when we do, there’s going to be a very small window of opportunity to act, and that brings me to my request.”

“Which is?”

“Pretty much a blank check. Presidential authority to pull together a fast-response team, including SEALs, Special Ops, and our best people from the CIA and the DIA. Whatever it takes.

“We need to act very fast on whatever intelligence we manage to collect. The bastards who hit us are very nimble and well-funded. We need to fight them with a similar team that has access to the necessary resources without having to jump through hoops to get authorization to move.”

“That’s a big ask, Hart. You’re asking me to cut a lot of people out of what would normally take a meeting of the NSC, the Joint Chiefs, half the cabinet, and the Senate Intelligence Committee to decide.”

Prost took another drag and just stared at his president.

“On the other hand,” Macklin continued, “I don’t want to be like Clinton after 9/11, regretting that he didn’t act when he could have to cut the head off the snake months or even years before the attacks took place. I’ve got enough regrets already because we didn’t uncover the plan to attack Truman. We must locate and capture or kill the bastards responsible — and fast. Still, what you’re asking is…”

“Is in addition to, Mac. Not instead of. You’re already at the helm of the big ship, and it’s an awesome ship with lots of guns, but it’s still a big fucking ship. I’m asking that we add a patrol boat, fast, nimble, but very, very deadly.”

“And let you be at its helm?”

“With your guidance, of course.”

“One mistake and Congress will roast me, you know that.”

Prost nodded. “Well, we either be proactive or start hoping there is someone there at the next time to avert disaster.”

“Like Commander Weathers,” Macklin said.

“Yep. The man took a huge chance ignoring the rules to prevent a second disaster. Someone else might have waited for permission to fire and, well…”

“I get your point.”

“Mac, a good offense is the best defense, and by approving this team I’m requesting — a well-organized group to get in front of this thing — you’ll be ensuring that we’re not going to be counting on a Hail Mary play to save us the next time.”

Macklin slowly leaned back, hands behind his head, chewing on the cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth as he stared at the sky. If this went sideways, it would make Desert One, Iran-Contra, Whitewater, and even Benghazi — as well as every other military and political snafu in history — pale in comparison.

Before Macklin could respond, Okimoto emerged from the woods and approached them. “You’re needed in the lodge, sir. Showtime.”

Ten minutes before the president’s prime-time address to the nation, Prost followed Macklin into the Aspen Lodge, where the camera crew was ready to begin.

First Lady Maria Eden-Macklin walked up to them. She was a striking woman, as tall as Macklin, with a swan-like neck, penetrating brown eyes, and honey-colored skin that made her look ten years his junior, even though they were the same age. She wore a pair of black jeans, boots, and a cream-colored cotton turtleneck to ward off the evening chill.

“Thanks for bringing him back, Hart,” she said, crinkling her nose as she hugged the president. “And you need a mint, darling.”

“I need a lot of things, honey,” Macklin replied, before turning to Prost and saying, “All right, Hart. Get your team going. And pray it works.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said before retreating with impressive fluidity, blending with the swarm of TV studio people and aides.

“What team?” the first lady asked.

“Darling, trust me. You don’t want to know,” Macklin said as he took her hand and approached a small podium set on one side of the main room, in front of the large windows overlooking the pool and the woods.

The Aspen Lodge certainly had its appeal and quite the history, dating back to FDR and Truman, who would entertain friends and guests there. President Eisenhower had loved to spend his evenings there playing Scrabble with the first lady, while JFK and LBJ used it often as an informal place to meet with advisers during the turbulent sixties. Nixon had even entertained celebrities such as Bob Hope, and Jimmy Carter had hosted sessions between Israeli prime minister Menachem Begin and Egyptian president Anwar Sadat in 1978.

Reagan spent many hours alone working in the old brown recliner, which still stood in the room next to the producer working the teleprompter. George H. W. Bush had hosted the Gorbachevs in 1990. President Clinton had met on the pool terrace with Yasser Arafat in 2000, and George W. Bush discussed world policy with Putin on the green sofas next to the podium.

Hell, Macklin thought, Obama even had a water gun fight with Sasha by the pool before meeting with G8 leaders.

The first lady took her place just behind and to his left as the lights came up, and he focused on the teleprompter, the glass panels across the front of the podium reflecting his speech. The producer gave him his cue.

“Good evening,” he said, feeling relaxed and confident. “My fellow Americans, yesterday’s callous attack on the crew of the aircraft carrier Harry S. Truman, and their families and friends on the pier, showed us once again the fear many in the world have of America’s freedom and democracy. But it is our freedom and democracy that have made America the strongest nation on the planet, a nation that has welcomed millions to our shores, where they have built better lives. We will not respond to this attack by cowering. We will not respond by weakening our determination to work toward a more free and democratic world. This attack only reinforces our determination to defeat those who would see us live in fear by their heinous acts.”

He paused, allowing the tension to leave his voice. “Rest assured those responsible and their sponsors will be the ones to live in fear, to live with the knowledge that our nation will not rest until we have discovered their identities and eliminated their ability to bring violence to our shores. We will ensure that they and others like them understand that the cost of attacking the United States of America is their own destruction.

“To the crew members of USS Truman, to their families and friends, Maria and I share your sense of loss. Along with our fellow Americans, we send you our prayers and heartfelt condolences.”

Macklin again paused, his face impassive. “As your president and commander in chief, I want to make my intentions perfectly clear to those who carry out and to those who support the carrying out of terrorism against the United States and its allies: Every country harboring or supporting terrorist organizations will be held responsible for their actions. You will pay a stiff penalty for allowing those who seek to attack the United States to operate within your borders; you will pay a stiffer penalty if you support them. There will be no exceptions. I want to be absolutely clear on this point. You will clean your house of these vermin.”

Macklin again stopped for a few moments. “While the United States has responded militarily in the past to attacks, we have long sought to use both the carrot and the stick. We have pursued the promotion of freedom and democratic governments. Our nation has lost many brave men and women in these efforts. But, too often, we have been rewarded only with more extremism and discord.

“For our efforts to destroy the Taliban and aid a free Afghani government, that government and our Pakistani allies sheltered Osama bin Laden. For our efforts to free Iraq from the dictatorship of Saddam Hussein, we were rewarded with hostilities between Sunnis and Shiites in that country, and the rise of ISIS. We have sent billions in aid, both financially and militarily, to these countries. And what have we gotten in return? More violence visited upon our country.”

Compelling himself to speak slowly, the president continued in a measured voice. “Some members of the media, and some lawmakers on Capitol Hill, claim that America is the real problem. They say that we are arrogant; that our wealth, our freedom, and our capitalism are the issues. Those sages see America’s hubris, American hegemony, America the superpower, imposing its will unilaterally.”

Macklin allowed time for the message to be absorbed. “They caution the United States to extend an olive branch and negotiate. Well, a negotiation requires two reasonable and rational parties — parties that both want an end to the violence and destruction. But our enemies are neither reasonable nor rational. Our enemies want to see the complete destruction of the United States. That they even imagine that possibility is a sign of their true insanity.”

His voice grew colder. “History has taught us over and over that appeasement will only embolden terrorism. Appeasement sends a message of weakness, of lack of courage, of an unwillingness to be ‘all in.’

“I’m putting our enemies on notice, as well as some of our allies. There will be no more diplomatic efforts, no more conciliatory gestures. There will be only overwhelming responses designed to ensure that those responsible never have the opportunity to harm us again.”

Macklin paused again. “And when we cannot find the terrorists themselves, we will find their backers, be they nations or individuals. We will find from where their money comes and we will treat those sponsor countries or individuals as terrorists themselves. I say to those countries, some who are supposedly allies, if you have been smiling to our faces and stabbing us in the back, those days are over. The American people are not foolish, nor will we be taken for fools. I tell you again, clean your houses… or we will clean them for you.”

He waited a few seconds, letting that sink in in the minds of his audience. “We didn’t try to make friends with Adolf Hitler or Hirohito in World War Two. We didn’t try to appease the Soviets during the Cold War. And we sure as hell are not going to befriend terrorists. We’re going to crush them.”

Macklin smiled briefly. “America is already on the offense. We’re taking the fight to our enemies as I speak.”

The president allowed his statement to linger. “I will not blink. I will not be intimidated, and I will not be dissuaded from my responsibility to protect you, my fellow citizens.”

Then leaning forward, he said with passion, “We will prevail. Good night and God bless America.”

As the red light went off and the bright TV lights dimmed, the president stepped away from the podium and hugged his wife.

Embracing her, President Macklin’s thoughts turned to the conversation he’d had with his director of national intelligence and the men and women who would soon be in harm’s way because of his orders. Sending men and women to war was, without a doubt, the most difficult decision any president had to make. Some had made it for the wrong reasons. He knew that he had not.