Eisenhower Executive Office Building
Office of Information amp; Public Relations
Department of Homeland Security
Washington, D.C.
February
President Cumberland’s immediate death from a heart attack and William Snow’s elevation to the presidency, as traumatic as it seemed, had provided much grist for the mill of late night comedians. Hank Carter on Late Night Today quipped: “Did you hear that the president ordered his new business cards the other day? They came back with ‘President of the United States,’ followed by a signature line that says ‘fill in the blank.’” In two hundred twenty-five years, America had never experienced such turmoil in government.
With the creation of the Homeland Security Department over a decade ago under President Steadman, many of the traditional intelligence-gathering agencies had consolidated under the new banner. President Prescott, in her brief tenure, had been a bit more creative in forming a small group of military intelligence and special operations people reporting directly to the Secretary of Homeland Security, Anthony Weyland.
To head the new operation, a combat-experienced Marine Colonel, Padraig ‘Pug’ Connor, with whom Prescott had worked on the California secession task force, was promoted to Brigadier General and placed in charge. The new team, still in its formative stages and recruiting staff, had been in place less than ninety days when President Cumberland took office.
The cover name given to the team was the Office of Information and Public Relations. It was designed to be a part of the president’s immediate advisory and quick reaction staff, without the need to consult the Joint Chiefs. In truth, it circumvented the established approval process for application of military force and was strongly opposed by the Pentagon.
They worked out of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, known as the EEOB, after its name was changed in 1999 from the Old Executive Office Building. The ornate structure, decried by some and praised by others, was located directly across the street from the White House.
General Connor, Sergeant Major-now Mr.-Castro, three Special Ops officers, and two enlisted NCO’s, plus a new secretary, composed the entire staff. With room for two more on the permanent staff, Connor had quietly solicited certain individuals from the special operations network to become a part of the team. The initial TO, or Table of Organization, numbered only seven people, plus two administrative support staff. But as General Connor had explained to Castro, Trojan was much more extensive.
For any mission that had been designated as security level “Troy” by the president, they had unrestricted access to military assets, including small, covert special ops units around the world, Army Delta, Recon Marines, or Navy Seals. They had authority to coordinate action with British, Australian, or New Zealand SAS troops, but only on a voluntary basis. Trojan’s tasking of military units did not require Pentagon approval, which was the primary source of military opposition. However, General Connor had decided to attempt coordination, if not cooperation, by giving notification as a matter of protocol mainly to assure that the field teams requested were not already involved in other missions.
President Prescott had given Pug free reign to develop the team, but since the change of administration, they had received no briefing on how the Office of Information and Public Relations, OIPR, would operate under the new president, either Cumberland or Snow. The turmoil of transition from Prescott to Cumberland to Snow, all within a matter of hours, had only exacerbated the situation.
Unfamiliar with such high-level political maneuvering, Pug had consulted his old boss at the CIA, Lieutenant General Bill Austin. Under Austin’s guidance, and in established military tradition, the Trojan team continued to ‘operate until relieved,’ pressing forward to establish a further foothold against intrusions, foreign or domestic. In this case, “domestic” was defined as any political or Pentagon-based assault on their domain. It was common knowledge that the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the JCS, would love-and had tried-to assume control over the group, resenting their ability to call upon military assets without standard approval procedure.
The widespread uncertainty among Cumberland’s designated cabinet officers, none of whom had received Senate confirmation, and all of whom were concerned about retaining their own anticipated power base, aided in Trojan’s ability to remain operationally independent. Everyone at an authority level, or presumed to be heading in that direction, was more concerned about their own survival than an assault on a small, non-descript military outfit.
The morning after his return from Ireland, Carlos Castro arrived at the EEOB and contacted Alice Hall, General Connor’s secretary, who now stood in the general’s doorway. “General, Mr. Castro is asking if you have a few moments to see him.”
“Thank you, Alice. Have him come in.”
Carlos was wearing civilian clothes, as was General Connor, a routine procedure for the Homeland Security military personnel working in the central Washington complex. Military officers working at DHS frequently dealt with other civilian government departments and had come to realize that uniforms sometimes put them at a disadvantage. The use of civilian attire had also reduced the military post atmosphere and the rank-induced protocol that existed at the Pentagon. The civilian atmosphere only carried so far, however, and even when a general officer wore a Brooks Brothers or Armani suit and referred to his military staff officers with a degree of informality, it was not intended to be reciprocal.
Carlos stopped in front of the general’s desk. “Good morning, General.”
Pug looked up. “Welcome back, Carlos. How did it go in Ireland?”
“Quite well, actually. I’ve been invited to an asshole convention,” Carlos said.
Pug smiled and shuffled a stack of papers into a pile, shoving them toward the corner of his desk. “Some might say you qualify.”
“Touche,” Carlos acknowledged. “I didn’t see anyone until I received a cryptic note at the embassy, instructing me to be on St. Stephen’s Green at a designated time. Then, after being driven blindfolded out to a secluded location, we switched vehicles. I then had a twenty-minute personal meeting with Kevin Donahue while he drove me to the airport. He knew about our new public relations function and your promotion. He said to give the general his regards.”
Pug nodded. “I told you he was well informed.”
“After I checked in and was waiting for my flight, I got this email at the Dublin airport,” Carlos said, placing a printed version on General Connor’s desk.
Pug scanned the paper quickly. “East Timor’s far too small to hold all the assholes I’ve met,” the general continued, a sharp grin crossing his face as he handed the note back. “Do you believe this information?”
Carlos nodded. “Yes, sir, I do. As you told me, Donahue had no reason to provide any information. He was not the least bit evasive. Why would he lay a false trail? I called Brigadier Colin McIntyre, military attache at the British Embassy here in Washington, early this morning. He’s heard Wolff’s name through his channels. He felt certain this would get instant response from MI6 and suggested we’d be hearing from the Brits within a couple of days, if not immediately.”
“You think they’ll want to crash the convention?” Pug asked.
“Wouldn’t surprise me, General. Sounds like something right up their alley.”
“What about the Indonesians or the Timor government?”
“I doubt the Brits would share this information. They’ll probably just send some SAS guys in as tourists and snatch him.”
“Something a recon marine might like to get involved in while working with a FAST team, I suppose?” Pug said, referring to one of the main components of their available assets, a Fleet Anti-Terrorist Security Team, mostly Force Recon Marines, located aboard each CBG, or Carrier Battle Group, throughout the world. Pug himself had commanded such a team several years before coming to the NSA and then the CIA.
“We could get some worthwhile information, sir. We’ve both been down that path before.”
Pug nodded. “I do miss that part of the game, Sergeant Major, but I’m on the bench now, and in short order, you’ll most likely become indispensible to this office. When that happens, I’ll bench you too. We might have to rely on our new assets to handle the field work. Don’t turn in your web gear just yet, but understand what I’m saying. Operational planning is just as important, maybe more so, than field ops. Speaking of that, we have three SEALS and two ranger candidates to interview tomorrow for our last two slots. I want you to go over their service records today. All good men, by first accounts. I know two of them. You probably do too. Besides, if we’re both benched, Trojan has to learn to rely on these guys. I think that after last week’s KLM drama, we’ll get more authority to go operational. The climate is feverish in the west wing.”
“General, have you met the new president yet?” Carlos asked.
“Not since he’s become president,” Pug replied.
Carlos remained silent, but tilted his head slightly, questioning the meaning.
“I’ll fill you in later, Carlos, but I knew President Snow over twenty years ago. He and my father and two other men were partners in a law firm in Phoenix. He taught me to play golf and my older brother is married to his daughter.”
Carlos whistled softly. “So you’re family.”
Pug bristled at the inference. “I don’t see it that way, Sergeant Major, and that information goes no further than this room until I decide how to address the issue.”
“Yes, sir. About the SAS and the extraction of Wolff?” Carlos said, a quick subject change seeming appropriate. “I’d like to be involved. He’s my first Trojan assignment, and if I’m likely headed for the bench, I’d like a bit more field time.”
“True, you’re not on the bench yet, and I agree that it’s probably necessary for you to accompany whoever is sent to get him. We might decide that it will be just you, with a small team to back you up. And… we might decide that it’s not an extraction.”
“I understand,” Carlos replied.
“But remember this, Carlos: there’s more than one way to fight a war. Especially the type of war we currently face. We both better get used to it. While we’re on the subject of East Timor, what do you make of this Intel?” he asked, handing Carlos a sheet of paper.
More than once, Pug had come to the same conclusion he was suggesting to Carlos-the necessity of stepping out of field operations-but for far different reasons. He had counted it up once when he was reviewing his life and his poor choices along the way. Pug had married Cheryl the week after he graduated from Annapolis in 1992. Within four months, he had gone to sea with a Marine Expeditionary Unit as a platoon commander. Out of eight years of marriage, over four and half of them he had either been at sea, commanding a platoon or company of Marines, or on a special covert assignment where he couldn’t even tell her where he was going, when he would be back, or where he had been. Finally, she’d had enough and told him, essentially, that she needed a husband who worked nine to five, cut the grass, went to bed with her, woke up next to her, and was going to be around to help raise the kids, if he was ever home long enough to participate in making any children. They’d parted ways in 2001, shortly before 9/11, and he’d remained single every since, notwithstanding the opportunities that had come his way. Fortunately they’d made the decision to divorce before children had complicated the process.
Scanning the document the general had handed him, Carlos assumed the role of analyst.
“It’s from Security Intelligence Service, Canberra,” Carlos said, basically to himself. “This confirms what we got last week from the DHS Intel Day Sheet, General. Increased indication that Al Qaida leadership is expanding operations in the Indonesian theatre and the South Pacific. They’ve got a lot of Muslim support there, just as many fanatics, but not much in the way of sophisticated weaponry. And the island Muslims are not happy about Australia’s support of the coalition forces in the war zone. They proved that a few years ago with the bombing in Bali, which targeted mostly Australian tourists, and more recently in Fremantle during the yachting regatta.”
“No sophisticated weapons, you say? Carlos, you know as well as I do that a reliable weapons delivery system in the Middle East, Indonesia, or anywhere else for that matter, can be nothing more than one single religious fanatic, a bulky overcoat, and a dozen sticks of dynamite plus several hundred ball bearings and nails strapped to his-or her-body. I want you to give this top priority. It coincides with your search for Wolff, at least geographically, and it may help to clarify why he’s going to East Timor in the first place. Put together an analysis of capability, timing, anything you can conceive of that terrorists could mount in the south and west Pacific theatre. You might need to have a chat with the Aussies.”
“I understand, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
“And let me know what the Brits decide. I think Brigadier McIntyre is right that they’ll be a bit anxious to get the SAS involved in this
… what is it the Brits would call it, an arsehole convention?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One further thing, Carlos,” Pug said, stepping behind his desk. “Your retirement is not until February 28 ^th, but let’s drop the Sergeant Major and commence immediately with Mr. Castro, Deputy Director, especially for the interviews tomorrow. Some of these guys may know you, and those that don’t will check us out with the SOG network. Since most of them are officers, we have to ascertain that they can work under the direction of a former enlisted man. Leave that part of the interview to me.”
“Yes, sir. No problem.”
“And Carlos, I’m going to remain on active duty as a general officer. In private, feel free to call me Pug, but in a public or staff setting, we will retain protocol.”
Carlos smiled again. “No problem… Pug.”
Carlos walked down the corridor toward his office, his thoughts mixed with regard to the possibility of going after Wolff, and the new, certainly more dangerous possibility of Al Qaida developing a new geographical base of operations in Indonesia. As he entered his office, he saw a Post-it note on his telephone, signed by his secretary.
Carlos, Brigadier McIntyre has called twice in the past hour.
Carlos looked at the note briefly, closed the door, sat behind his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“British Embassy, Military Attache’s office. May I be of assistance?”
“Brigadier McIntyre, please. Carlos Castro returning his call.”
“Certainly, sir, one moment please.”
A slight pause ensued, and then McIntyre came on the line. Brigadier Sir Colin McIntyre had served Her Majesty through three decades and part of a fourth, as a young officer with the Coldstream Guards, eventually rising to command the regiment, and then as a member of MI6, Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, posted abroad the past decade.
“Carlos, thank you for returning my call. Your Irish information has stirred up the proverbial hornet’s nest, dear boy. Are your swimming skills still in good form?”
“Sir?”
“About now, or certainly within the hour, I suspect General Connor will be getting a call from the Pentagon. The thrust of the message, lad, will be that Her Majesty’s government shall be requesting the use of your personal skills.”
“In what capacity, Brigadier?” Carlos asked.
“ Who dares, wins, I should think, Carlos. You know those Stirling Lines SAS boys, of course. The CRW, our counter-revolutionary warfare wing, will probably be assigned this mission, although given the proximity of the target, they might farm it out to the colonials. That would be the Aussies to you.” He laughed.
Carlos smiled briefly, recognition of a previous assignment in the Middle East drawing distant memories. “It seems I’m destined to spend a portion of my career seconded to Her Majesty’s Special Air Service. And we’re going swimming, you say?”
“Indubitably, my dear boy, but not to worry. It’s quite warm in the South Pacific this time of year, so I’m led to believe, and with six to eight inches of snow due here in Washington later this week-well, I envy you. Were I twenty… no, make that thirty years younger, I’d see about a set of togs and flippers for myself. Let me know when you hear something.”
“Certainly, Brigadier. Thanks for the heads-up.”