After twenty more minutes of discussion, the president adjourned the meeting, informing the participants he would take their suggestions under advisement.
Quietly, Rutledge questioned why winning the war on terror and winning the war with the media seemed to be mutually exclusive. How many more September 11ths had to happen before the American people realized what a savage enemy they were facing? It was one of the most trying challenges of his administration, but the president knew that however unpopular his choices might be, he had to put the welfare of the country and its citizens first-even if many of them couldn’t stomach what had to be done.
As he was readying to leave the room, Secretary of Defense Robert Hilliman-a graying, heavyset man in his mid-sixties with wire-rimmed glasses and wearing a neatly pressed Brooks Brothers suit-asked, “Mr. President, may we have a moment of your time?” General Waddell stood next to him with a folder in his hand.
Once the rest of the cabinet members had left the situation room, Waddell handed the folder to Hilliman, who opened it and said, “Mr. President, immediately after 9/11 you asked me to task certain agencies within the Defense Department to develop a plan to handle the detention and interrogation of enemy combatants of significant intelligence value.”
“Which along with the CIA’s efforts is how we came up with extraordinary rendition,” replied the president.
“Yes, sir, but we at the Defense Department also foresaw a situation wherein operatives at the very top of al-Qaeda’s organizational pyramid, men like Mohammed bin Mohammed, Ayman al-Zawahiri, or even bin Laden himself might pose a special set of challenges incongruent with our rendition policies.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’ve got a different take on how to handle this?”
“Yes, I believe we do.”
“Then why didn’t you say something during the meeting?” asked Rutledge.
Hilliman answered by pulling an executive summary from the folder and handing it to him.
The president read it through twice and then once more for good measure before saying, “How many people would be in the loop on this?”
“As few as possible, sir,” responded Waddell. “It’s an extremely unorthodox plan, and we feel the less who know about it the better.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” said Rutledge as he motioned for the rest of the file. As he slowly read through it, he asked, “How confident are you that this can be pulled off? And I don’t want a rosy, best-case scenario. I want the real down-and-dirty assessment.”
Waddell looked at Hilliman, who replied, “Because of certain elements beyond our control, we put it at about a sixty percent probability of success.”
That didn’t sit well with the president. “That’s not a very good number.”
“No, sir, it’s not. But considering the situation, we think the benefits far outweigh the liabilities.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Rutledge. “If this ever became public knowledge, the fallout would be devastating.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Waddell, “but we have contingencies in place to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“With only a sixty percent probability of success,” said the president, “you’d better have a boatload of them.”
Hilliman and Waddell had been at this game long enough to know when to back off and let an operation sell itself. They also knew that Jack Rutledge would make the right call, no matter how hard a decision it was. He always did.
After a few more minutes of studying the file, the president nodded his head and said, “I want you to keep me up to speed every step of the way on this.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” responded Hilliman.
General Waddell then picked up one of the secure telephones on the situation-room table, dialed an inside line at the Defense Intelligence Agency, and spoke five words that would have repercussions far beyond what any of them could have imagined: “We’re go for Operation Driftwood.”