Rogue Forces (13 page)

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE
, W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

A
SHORT TIME LATER

President Joseph Gardner was logging off his computer in the private study adjacent to the Oval Office and had just reached for his jacket to call it a night and head up to the residence when the phone rang. It was his national security adviser, longtime friend, and former assistant secretary of the Navy, Conrad Carlyle. He hit the speakerphone button: “I was just about to call it a day, Conrad. Can it wait?”

“I wish I could, sir,” Carlyle said from a secure cell phone, probably in his car. His friend rarely called him “sir” when they spoke one-on-one unless it was an emergency, and this immediately got the president’s attention. “I’m en route to the White House, sir. Reports of a cross-border attack into Iraq by Turkey.”

Gardner’s heart rate went down a few percentage points. Neither Turkey nor least of all Iraq was a strategic threat to him right now—even goings-on in Iraq rarely caused long sleepless nights anymore. “Any of our guys involved?”

“A bunch.”

Heart rate back up again. What in hell happened? “Oh, shit.” He could almost taste that glass of rum over ice that he had his mind set on back up in the residence. “Are they set up in the Situation Room for me yet?”

“No, sir.”

“How much info do you have?”

“Very little.”

Time for one glass before the action really started ramping up. “I’ll be in the Oval Office. Come get me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gardner put a few ice cubes in an old Navy coffee mug, splashed some Ron Caneca rum into it, and took it out to the Oval Office. There was a crisis brewing somewhere, and it was important for
onlookers around the world to stare through the windows and see the president of the United States hard at work—but that didn’t mean he had to deprive himself.

He turned the TV in the Oval Office to CNN, but there was nothing yet about any incident in Turkey. He could get the feeds from the Situation Room in his study, but he didn’t want to leave the Oval Office until the emergency was broadcast on worldwide TV and he was seen already watching it.

It was all about image, and Joe Gardner was a master at presenting a certain, specific, carefully crafted image. He always wore a collared shirt and tie except right before bed, and if he wasn’t wearing a jacket, his sleeves were rolled up and his tie was slightly loosened to make it look like he was hard at work. He used speakerphones often, but when others could see him he always used a telephone handset so everyone could see him busily talking. He never used the delicate china cups either, preferring heavy, thick Navy coffee mugs for all his beverages, because he thought they made him look manlier.

Besides, like Jackie Gleason on TV with his teacup filled with booze, everyone would assume he
was
drinking coffee.

The White House chief of staff, Walter Kordus, knocked on the Oval Office door, waited the requisite few seconds in case there was any sign of protest, then let himself in. “I got the call from Conrad, Joe,” Kordus said. He was dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and Topsiders. Another longtime Gardner friend and ally, he was always available in a heartbeat and was probably lurking around the West Wing somewhere instead of being home with his wife and sizable stable of children. He looked at the flat-screen TV hidden in a cabinet. “Anything yet?”

“No.” Gardner raised his mug. “Have a drink. I’m almost one ahead of you.” The chief of staff dutifully fixed himself a mug of rum, but as usual he did not drink any of it.

It wasn’t until Carlyle blew through the Oval Office doors with a briefing folder in his hands that there was something on CNN, and it was only a mention on the scroll at the bottom of the screen of a
“shooting incident” in northern Iraq. “It’s looking like a friendly-fire incident, sir,” Carlyle said. “An Army platoon was backing up an Iraqi infantry company on a sweep of a suspected al-Qaeda in Iraq tunnel entrance when the area was hit by Turkish medium-range unguided rockets.”

“Crap,” the president muttered. “Get Stacy Anne out here.”

“She’s on her way, and so is Miller,” Carlyle said. Stacy Anne Barbeau, a former U.S. senator from Louisiana who was as ambitious as she was flamboyant, had recently been confirmed as the new secretary of state; Miller Turner, yet another longtime Gardner friend and confidant, was the secretary of defense.

“Casualties?”

“Eleven dead, sixteen wounded, ten critically.”

“Je-sus.”

Over the next ten minutes, the president’s advisers or deputies filtered in to the Oval Office one by one. The last to arrive was Barbeau, looking as if she was ready for a night on the town. “My staff is in contact with the Turkish embassy and with the Turkish foreign ministry,” she said, heading right over to the coffee tray. “I’m expecting a call from each of them shortly.”

“Casualty count is up to thirteen and is expected to go higher, sir,” Turner said as he listened to a call from the Army corps commander. “They can’t say that the platoon itself was targeted, but it appears that the Iraqis and Turks were going after the same target.”

“Then if our guys were backing up the Iraqis, how did they get hit?”

“The contractors making the initial assessment say that the second round of rockets was meant to catch any survivors escaping from the target area.”

“Contractors?”

“As you know, sir,” National Security Adviser Carlyle said, “we’ve been able to greatly draw down our uniformed military forces in Iraq, Afghanistan, and many other forward areas around the world by replacing them with civilian contractors. Almost all military
functions not involving direct action—security, reconnaissance, maintenance, communications, the list goes on—are done by contractors these days.”

The president nodded, already moving on to other details. “I need the names of the casualties so I can call the families.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any of these contractors get hurt?”

“No, sir.”

“Figures,” the president said idly.

The phone on the president’s desk rang, and chief of staff Walter Kordus picked it up, listened, then held the receiver out to Barbeau. “Turkish prime minister Akas herself, Stacy, patched in from State.”

“That’s a good sign,” Barbeau said. She activated the translator on the president’s computer. “Good morning, Madam Prime Minister,” she said. “This is Secretary of State Barbeau.”

At the same moment another phone rang. “Turkish president Hirsiz on the line for you, sir.”

“He better have some explanations,” Gardner said, taking the receiver. “Mr. President, this is Joseph Gardner.”

“President Gardner, good evening,” Kurzat Hirsiz said in very good English, his voice fairly quivering with anxiety, “I am sorry to disturb you, but I just heard about the terrible tragedy that occurred on the Iraq border, and on behalf of all the people of Turkey, I wanted to immediately call and express my sadness, regret, and sorrow to the families of the men that died as a result of this horrible accident.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Gardner said. “Now what the hell happened?”

“An inexcusable error on the part of our interior security forces,” Hirsiz said. “They received information that Kurdish PKK insurgents and terrorists were massing at a tunnel complex in Iraq and were planning another attack on a Turkish airport or military airfield, larger and more devastating than the recent attack in Diyarbakir. The information came from very reliable sources.

“They said that the numbers of PKK fighters were in the hundreds in the tunnel complex, which is very extensive and crisscrosses the Iraq border over a wide area. It was determined that we did not have enough time to gather a force sufficient to destroy such a large force in so dangerous an area, so it was decided to attack using a rocket barrage. I gave the order to attack personally, and so it is my error and my responsibility.”

“For God’s sake, Mr. President, why didn’t you tell us first?” Gardner asked. “We’re allies and friends, remember? You know we have forces in that area operating day and night to secure the border area and hunt down insurgents, including the PKK. One quick phone call alerting us and we could’ve pulled our forces out without alerting the terrorists.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, Mr. President,” Hirsiz said. “But our informant told us that the terrorists would be on the move shortly, and we had to act quickly. There was no time—”

“No time?
Thirteen dead Americans
who were in a support role only, Mr. President! And we don’t even have the Iraqi casualty count yet! You should have
made
the time!”

“Yes, yes, I agree, Mr. President, and it was a horrible omission that I deeply regret and for which I personally apologize,” Hirsiz said, this time with an obvious edge in his voice. There was a slight pause; then: “But may I remind you, sir, that we were not informed about the Iraqi operation, either from you or the Iraqi government. Such a notification would have also prevented this accident.”

“Don’t start passing around the blame now, Mr. President,” Gardner snapped. “Thirteen Americans are
dead
because of
your
artillery barrage, which was targeted
inside Iraq
, not on Turkish soil! That is inexcusable!”

“I agree, I agree, sir,” Hirsiz said stonily. “I do not dispute that, and I do not seek to lay blame where it does not belong. But the tunnel complex was under the Iraq-Turkish border, the terrorists were massing in Iraq, and we know the insurgents live, plot, and gather weapons and supplies in Iraq and Iran. It was a legitimate target, no matter which side of the border. We know the Kurds in Iraq harbor
and support the PKK, and the Iraqi government does little to stop them. We must act because the Iraqis will not.”

“President Hirsiz, I’m not going to get into an argument with you on what the Iraqi government does or does not do with the PKK,” Gardner said irritably. “I want a full and complete explanation of what happened, and I demand a pledge from you to do everything in your power to see to it that it doesn’t happen again. We’re
allies
, sir. Disasters like this can and must be avoided, and it appears that if you had done your duty as an ally and friendly neighbor of Iraq and communicated better with us, this could have…”

“
Bir saniye!
Excuse me, sir?” Hirsiz said. There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line, and Gardner heard someone in the background say the word
sik,
which the computerized translator said meant “head of a penis.” “Pardon me, Mr. President, but as I explained to you, we thought we were attacking PKK terrorists that have only recently killed almost two dozen innocent men, women, and children in a major Turkish city. The incident in Zahuk was a horrible mistake, for which I am fully responsible and sincerely apologize to you, the families of the dead, and the people of America. But this does not give you the right to demand anything from this government.”

“There’s no reason for obscenities, President Hirsiz,” Gardner said, so flustered and angry that veins stood out on his forehead. He noticed Hirsiz did not deny or dispute the allegation, or was surprised that Gardner knew of it. “We will conduct a full investigation on this attack, and I expect your utmost cooperation. I want your complete assurance that you communicate with us and your NATO partners better in the future so attacks like this won’t happen again.”

“It was not an
attack
against your troops or the Iraqis, but against suspected PKK insurgents and terrorists, sir,” Hirsiz said. “Please choose your words more carefully, Mr. President. It was an
accident
, a tragic mistake that occurred in the defense of the homeland of the Republic of Turkey. I take responsibility for a terrible
accident
, sir, not an
attack.
”

“All right, Mr. President, all
right
,” Gardner said. “We will be in contact shortly regarding the arrival of forensic, military, and criminal investigators. Good night, sir.”

“
I yi akşamlar
. Good night, Mr. President.”

Gardner slammed the phone down. “Damn, you’d think
he
lost thirteen men!” he said. “Stacy?”

“I caught a little of your conversation, Mr. President,” Barbeau said. “The prime minister was apologetic, almost over-the-top so. I felt she was sincere, although she clearly sees it as an accident for which they only
share
responsibility.”

“Yeah? And if it was an American rocket barrage and dead Turkish troops, we’d be crucified by not just Turkey but by the entire world—we’d get
all
the blame and then some,” Gardner said. He sat back in his chair and ran an exasperated hand over his face. “All right, all right, screw the Turks for now. Someone messed up here, and I want to know who, and I want some butts—Turkish, Iraqi, PKK, or Americans, I don’t care, I want some
butts
.” He turned to the secretary of defense. “Miller, I’m going to appoint a chair to handle the investigation. I want this public—in-your-face, rough, tough, and direct. This is the greatest number of casualties in Iraq since I’ve been in office, and I’m not going to get this administration bogged down in Iraq.” He glanced for a moment at Stacy Barbeau, who made a very slight gesture with her eyes. Gardner picked up on it immediately and turned to the vice president, Kenneth T. Phoenix. “Ken, how about it? You definitely have the background.”

“Absolutely, sir,” he replied without hesitation. Kenneth Phoenix, just forty-six years old, could have been one of America’s fastest rising political stars—if only he didn’t work so hard. Law degree from UCLA, four years as a judge advocate in the U.S. Marine Corps, four years in the U.S. attorney’s office in the District of Columbia, then various offices in the Department of Justice before being nominated as attorney general.

In the years after the horror of the American holocaust, Phoenix worked tirelessly to assure the American public and the world that
the United States of America would not slip into martial law. He was relentless with lawbreakers and pursued anyone, regardless of political affiliation or wealth, who sought to prey on victims of the Russian attacks. He was equally relentless with Congress and even the White House to make sure that individual rights were not violated as the government got to work rebuilding the nation and resecuring its borders.