into the nearest
mailbox?" the President asked.
"Because they know that by doing it this way, making
you the mailman, gives them the biggest echo in the media."
"That again."
"Name of the game," Harkins said, pausing. As
always, the President knew, the man would wait for just the right moment to
bring up his covert solution.
"Nothing wrong with dispensing hope, I suppose,"
the President sighed.
To make this latest decision on meeting with the families
of the hostages, he had assembled his secretaries of Defense and State, Ned
Foreman, his National Security Advisor, Harkins, and two of his closest old
friends and loyalists, Lou Shore, a counselor, and Bob Nickels, his Chief of
Staff, along with Steve Potter, his press secretary.
It was, the President had known from the beginning, a
deliberate exercise in futility. He had listened patiently to their various
points of view. They were all good men, intelligent with the right instincts.
An adequate military response was impossible. Above all, it could not be small.
It had to be massive, specific, devastating. The Secretary of Defense had
outlined the option.
But on whom would this devastation be directed? The concept
of a surgical strike had pretty well been discredited a few years back by the
Reagan-ordered bombing of Libya. It hadn't really helped stop the problem and
it had killed an unacceptable number of civilians. The press secretary had
suggested giving in to their demands by some subterfuge. Foreman got his dander
up over that one. Can't do that, his National Security Advisor had interjected.
Not even surreptitiously. Buckling under only encouraged more of the same. The
old story. Round and round.
Harkins, as usual, got in his pitch for covert action,
eliciting the usual rebuttals. No guarantees. Too vulnerable to legalities and
moral strictures. And, of course, the dreaded Congressional Oversight Committee.
"We blow it, they'll be the first to scream
foul," Foreman had said. Harkins had retreated. Only temporarily, the
President knew.
"What about the Egyptians?" the President had
asked the group. "Have they any leads as yet on the bastards that took the
woman and her child?"
"They're working on it," Foreman had responded.
"I wouldn't rule that out." Foreman had come from academia and his
comments always seemed to come out in a superior, world-weary tone. He also
looked the part, brown hair, spiky and dry, partless, his skin pallid, his eyes
squinty with tension above satchel bags of fatigue.
"I would," Harkins had countered, his words
clipped and cocksure. They were always biting at each other. As always, his
pale blue eyes were clear behind his thin horn-rims. His face was all sharp
planes, his steel-gray hair side-parted with perfect symmetry, as if it had
been done with a T-square.
"We giving them support?" the President asked.
"Some," Harkins had replied. "Unfortunately,
they've got a pride problem." He had paused and looked at the men's faces
around the room. "And you know what pride goeth before."
Eventually they got around to the public relations aspects
of the situation. Just thinking about it sometimes made the President want to
puke.
"You've got to look upbeat and appear to be doing
something about this," Bob Nickels had said. His Chief of Staff was a
former PR man from Minneapolis. It was then that someone had come up with the
mailman ploy.
"Better than ignoring it," Potter had pointed
out. "Besides, some of the relatives are beginning to make odd noises in
the press."
"Can you blame them?"
"That's not the issue, Mr. President."
"Then what is?"
"Four years or eight," Nickels had reminded him.
On that note the meeting had broken up.
Cooled down, he and Harkins got up from the bench and
headed across the White House lawn to the south entrance.
"God, I dread that meeting," the President said.
"Might be better to tell them the truth and be done
with it," Harkins said. The President stopped and faced him.
"What does that mean?"
"That there's
mailbox?" the President asked.
"Because they know that by doing it this way, making
you the mailman, gives them the biggest echo in the media."
"That again."
"Name of the game," Harkins said, pausing. As
always, the President knew, the man would wait for just the right moment to
bring up his covert solution.
"Nothing wrong with dispensing hope, I suppose,"
the President sighed.
To make this latest decision on meeting with the families
of the hostages, he had assembled his secretaries of Defense and State, Ned
Foreman, his National Security Advisor, Harkins, and two of his closest old
friends and loyalists, Lou Shore, a counselor, and Bob Nickels, his Chief of
Staff, along with Steve Potter, his press secretary.
It was, the President had known from the beginning, a
deliberate exercise in futility. He had listened patiently to their various
points of view. They were all good men, intelligent with the right instincts.
An adequate military response was impossible. Above all, it could not be small.
It had to be massive, specific, devastating. The Secretary of Defense had
outlined the option.
But on whom would this devastation be directed? The concept
of a surgical strike had pretty well been discredited a few years back by the
Reagan-ordered bombing of Libya. It hadn't really helped stop the problem and
it had killed an unacceptable number of civilians. The press secretary had
suggested giving in to their demands by some subterfuge. Foreman got his dander
up over that one. Can't do that, his National Security Advisor had interjected.
Not even surreptitiously. Buckling under only encouraged more of the same. The
old story. Round and round.
Harkins, as usual, got in his pitch for covert action,
eliciting the usual rebuttals. No guarantees. Too vulnerable to legalities and
moral strictures. And, of course, the dreaded Congressional Oversight Committee.
"We blow it, they'll be the first to scream
foul," Foreman had said. Harkins had retreated. Only temporarily, the
President knew.
"What about the Egyptians?" the President had
asked the group. "Have they any leads as yet on the bastards that took the
woman and her child?"
"They're working on it," Foreman had responded.
"I wouldn't rule that out." Foreman had come from academia and his
comments always seemed to come out in a superior, world-weary tone. He also
looked the part, brown hair, spiky and dry, partless, his skin pallid, his eyes
squinty with tension above satchel bags of fatigue.
"I would," Harkins had countered, his words
clipped and cocksure. They were always biting at each other. As always, his
pale blue eyes were clear behind his thin horn-rims. His face was all sharp
planes, his steel-gray hair side-parted with perfect symmetry, as if it had
been done with a T-square.
"We giving them support?" the President asked.
"Some," Harkins had replied. "Unfortunately,
they've got a pride problem." He had paused and looked at the men's faces
around the room. "And you know what pride goeth before."
Eventually they got around to the public relations aspects
of the situation. Just thinking about it sometimes made the President want to
puke.
"You've got to look upbeat and appear to be doing
something about this," Bob Nickels had said. His Chief of Staff was a
former PR man from Minneapolis. It was then that someone had come up with the
mailman ploy.
"Better than ignoring it," Potter had pointed
out. "Besides, some of the relatives are beginning to make odd noises in
the press."
"Can you blame them?"
"That's not the issue, Mr. President."
"Then what is?"
"Four years or eight," Nickels had reminded him.
On that note the meeting had broken up.
Cooled down, he and Harkins got up from the bench and
headed across the White House lawn to the south entrance.
"God, I dread that meeting," the President said.
"Might be better to tell them the truth and be done
with it," Harkins said. The President stopped and faced him.
"What does that mean?"
"That there's
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