The Fifth Horseman (15 page)

Since time immemorial the intensity of that struggle had made the desert the incubator of the spiritual, its inhuman solitude the catalyst that had driven men to the extreme. Moses in the Sinai, Christ in the wilderness, the Prophet on his Hegira: each, in turn, had thrust on mankind the visions engendered by their desert retreats. Others had, too: visionaries and zealots, fanatics and spiritualists, part of the unending parade of austere and alarming men that through the centuries had emerged from those trackless wastes to trouble the settled world around them.

Immersed now in the reassuring familiarity of his desert, the latest of that long and troubling line awaited the results of his test in perfect calm. If it had worked, it was now, he reasoned, in their first flash of anger, that the Americans would lash out against him. If that was God’s will, then he was ready to perish here in the surroundings that had formed him. If it had failed, he would have one course open: he would condemn the “plot” fomented within his borders, arrest a few Palestinians and stage a mock trial to mollify the anger of the Americans and the world.

His alert ears picked up the flutter of a helicopter coming to announce the result. to return him to his capital in triumph or shame. He watched unmoved as it drew up, then fluttered to rest fifty yards from his tent. A man leaped out.

“Ya sidi!” he shouted. “It worked!”

His first reaction to the news was to bow his head in prayer, a prayer of awe and gratitude for the power that now rested in his hands. Woven into the multicolored strands of the prayer rug on which he bowed his head were the outlines of the Islamic sanctuary which with that power he would now claim in the name of his faith and his people, Jerusalem’s Mosque of Omar.

The President of the United States sat motionless at the head of the conference table in the National Military Command Center. He too had greeted the desert explosion with a prayer, a prayer for help in what he had instantly understood was the gravest crisis his nation had ever faced. Now he was staring straight ahead, his index finger pressed to his lips, every fiber of his being concentrated on the dilemma before him.

“The first thing I would like to say,” he announced finally, “is all our actions must be based on the assumption that there is a hydrogen bomb hidden in New York,” the President continued. “And we have also got to assume that Qaddafi is deadly serious when he threatens to detonate it if any word of this gets to the public.”

In a strange way, the President thought, he may have done us a serivce. If word of this ever got out, we’d probably have an outburst of public opinion that would close down every option we have except forcing the Israelis out of the West Bank. He leaned forward and folded his hands on the table, letting his glance travel over his advisers ranged around the table, then the military men at their command consoles. “I don’t think I need remind any of you of the moral obligation this places on everyone here. There are certainly some of us who have persons very close to us who may be threatened by this. But each of us has got to remember that the lives of five million of our countrymen may depend on keeping it a secret.”

“Jack”-he glanced at his National Security Assistant-“do you have any specifics to recommend on that?”

“Well, sir, it goes without saying, only use secure telephones when talking about it.” It was well known in Washington that the Soviets intercepted microwave calls in and out of the White House-just as the United States monitored those going to the Kremlin. “And no secretaries. If anyone has to write anything, write it by hand. With no carbons.”

“How do we keep this from the press?” Bennington asked.

It was a vital question. There were two thousand journalists accredited to the White House. Forty or fifty of them were in almost constant attendance on its grounds during the day, the most able among them convinced on arising each morning that the government would lie to them at least once before sundown. Leaks were a way of life in the capital, and gossip on government secrets the main topics of conversation at its cocktail parties and dinners and the lunches at the Sans Souci and Jean Pierre’s where its luminaries picked each other’s brains as assiduously as they picked their Maryland soft-shelled crab.

“Should we tell the press secretary?” the President asked.

“I’m not sure,” Eastman replied. “If we don’t, his reaction will be more natural if he gets any queries on it. But if we do tell him, he’d damn well better be prepared to lie, stonewall and deny this damn thing right into the ground.”

“If we do tell him,” William Webster of the FBI drawled, “he can tell us right away if anyone in the media’s focusing in on it.”

“Don’t worry,” Eastman said, “if anyone in the media starts to focus in, we’ll hear about it fast enough. The most important thing is to hold this as close as possible. The Kennedy people held on to the Missile Crisis for a week because only fifteen people in the government knew about it. You’re also going to have to maintain the fagade of a normal existence. That’s the best way to keep the press off the track.”

The President indicated his agreement, then shifted his attention to the admiral commanding the center. He ordered him to begin their stock-taking with the traditional appraisal of the military situation and the options open to the U.S. armed forces.

The Admiral stepped back to the speaker’s stand. Eastman could not suppress a smile. Even at a moment like this, the Admiral moved automatically into his Pentagon “briefer’s stance,” feet a rigid six inches apart, left hand in the small of his back, his right wielding the absolute end in briefer’s sex, a collapsible aluminum pointer with a glowing light on its tip with which he once again reviewed the Soviet’s military posture. Nothing had changed. Noting that, Caspar Weinberger, the Secretary of Defense, intervened.

“Mr. President. I would suggest our first action should be to alert the Soviets to what has happened. However strained our relations are, I think that in this we can count on their help in bringing Qaddafi to ground. Furthermore, they should be made aware that any military moves we make are not being directed against them.

The President agreed. “Open up the Red Line,” he commanded Eastman, “and inform the Soviets I’d like to speak with the Chairman.”

“Sir,” Bob Fundseth, the Deputy Secretary of State, said, “I think it’s also essential we coordinate with our allies any actions we take and keep them informed of this at the highest level. I’d like authorization to get off ‘Eyes Only’ messages to Mrs. Thatcher, Helmut Schmidt and, above all, President Giscard. We’ve got to assume the source of Qaddafi’s plutonium for the atomic trigger of that bomb was his French reactor. The French may be able to turn up information for us on the people Qaddafi has involved in this that will help the Bureau run them down.”

The President gave his approval, then ordered the Admiral to resume his briefing. This time a series of bright-red lights on the semidarkened screen indicated the positions of all the ships of the Sixth Fleet, most of them gathered off Crete on an anti-submarine-warfare exercise. They represented the U.S. forces closest to Libya, and, the Admiral told the assembly, they could be ordered to start southwest immediately.

Harry Fuller, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, broke into his briefing.

“Mr. President, I think there’s one point that needs to be clarified right away. There is no viable military solution to this crisis. Sure, we can destroy Libya. Instantly. But that’s not going to give us any guarantee whatsoever that his bomb-if it’s in New York — won’t explode. And that, in my judgment, precludes our taking any military action against Qaddafi for the time being.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with that,” the President noted grimly. “What do you recommend we do, then?”

“Every move we make,” the Admiral declared in a voice that boomed through the room like a Navy klaxon sounding general quarters, “has got to be designed to remind Qaddafi of the potential consequences of his action.

He’s got to be kept aware every hour, every minute, every second of this damned crisis that we can thermonuclearize him in the blink of an eye. Let him live, eat and breathe that and see how he likes it.”

The Admiral waved a hand at the red lights flashing on the screen. “I agree we should send the Sixth Fleet hell for leather for the Libyan coast. If they’ve got any liberty parties ashore, they’ll just have to leave them on the beach. Once they get there, I’d put them right up against his coastline where his radar’s sure to pick them up. Run a high-altitude aerial screen up and down the coastline from the carriers and tell the pilots to talk in the clear so he’s constantly reminded they’re carrying enough missiles to turn that goddamn country of his into an instant ruin.” A dour smile appeared on the Admiral’s face. “The deployment of force in a situation like this is designed to alter your enemy’s perception of his actions. Maybe this will alter his.”

“Mr. President.” There it was again, that rasping drawl of Crandell’s.

“You’re not going to like what I’m going to say, but I’m going to say it anyway. Destroy Qaddafi. Right now.”

The Chief Executive gave his Energy Secretary a look of ill-concealed exasperation. It did nothing to staunch the flow of his unsolicited advice.

“The great mistake we made in Iran was not acting the very first day they took those hostages. The whole world would have understood us if we had. We waited and what happened? Everybody was holding us by the coattails. `Don’t do anything rash. Think about our oil. Think about the Russians.’ “

“Mr. Crandell, we’re not talking about fifty hostages in an embassy.” The President almost spat the words at his Energy Secretary. Despite the placid surface he turned to the public, he was, in private, a man of considerable temper. “We’re talking about five million people and New York City.”

“We’re talking about this country, Mr. President, and a man who’s declared war on us. We’ve got to show him and everybody else on this globe that there’s a limit beyond which we aren’t going to be pushed. Mark my words, if you don’t respond to this man, challenge right now, tell him he’s got five minutes to tell you where that bomb’s hidden or he and his country are dead”-Crandell was waving a pudgy finger across the table=`then before this night is over you’ll be ready to betray this nation’s friends to satisfy a blackmailer.”

“Crandell.” The President had paled under his efforts to rein in his temper. “When I want military advice from you I’ll call for it. I’m not going to put the lives of five million of our people at risk until I’ve exhausted every possible avenue of saving them and this world from an unspeakable catastrophe.”

“By talking, Mr. President, and once you’ve started talking you’ll start compromising. Everybody always does.”

The President turned angrily away from his Energy Secretary. To lose his temper, whatever the provocation, in front of his advisers at this moment would be a disaster.

Crandell looked at him, slowly shaking his head. Just like that it was a nuclear shot and want to know what we’ve face he thinks it’s raining.

At the far end of the table, Bennington had just picked up his telephone.

The CIA head listened for a moment. “Excuse me, sir, but it looks like we’ve got another problem on our hands.”

Every eye in the room turned on the New Englander. “Mossad’s just got onto the Agency. They picked up the explosion on their seismographs. They’re very suspicious that it was a nuclear shot and want to know what we’ve got on it.”

“Christ!” someone groaned from the end of the table. “If they find out what Qaddafi’s done, they’ll take him out on their own and we may lose New York.”

The President frowned. It had been almost inevitable that the Israelis would pick up the shock waves. As long as they didn’t spot the fallout, though, they’d have doubts, and none of the fallout was heading their way.

Right now what he needed was time, time to get the planning in order, time to get a grip on the problem before them.

“Stall,” be ordered Bennington. “Tell them it looks like an earthquake.

Tell them we’re checking it out and we’ll keep them informed.”

On the wall opposite the President, the bank of clocks showed it was 12:30

A.M., 7:30 in Jerusalem and Tripoli. They.had thirty-eight and a half hours left, and every minute of them had to be made to count.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “let’s try to define the areas we’ve got to address ourselves to in order of their importance. First in New York: what do we do about it?”

He twisted in his chair to face Caspar Weinberger. Civil defense fell under his sprawling Defense Department umbrella. “Do we have a plan to get these people out of New York in an emergency?”

“Mr. President, Jack Kennedy asked that question about Miami on the second day of the Cuban Missile Crisis.” Weinberger sighed. “It took two hours to get the answer then, and it was no. Well, I can answer you this time in two seconds. It’s still no.”

“Don’t forget,” Eastman warned, “he’s threatening to detonate that thing if we start an evacuation. He considers those people his hostages.”

The President looked at his adviser. There was an infinity of sadness in his dark eyes.

“Do we take him at his word on that, Jack?”

“I’m afraid we have to, Mr. President.”

“Even though it might mean five million lives?”

“It could mean five million lives if we call his bluff and he’s not bluffing.”

The helicopter bearing Muammar al-Qaddafi back to his capital settled down on a landing pad concealed in a grove of Aleppo pines nineteen miles southeast of Tripoli at 7:52 Libyan time. The dictator leaped out and slid into the driver’s seat of a sky-blue Volkswagen hidden in the midst of the trees.

Four minutes later, followed by a jeepload of his redbereted Praetorian Guard, he passed through a barrier of electrified barbed wire and headed down a long alley of cypress trees leading to the Mediterranean shore. No foreign diplomat, no distinguished visitor, none of Qaddafi’s fellow Arab leaders had ever been invited into the elegant old dwelling set at the end of the drive.