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Authors: Patrick Robinson
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impression he was a bit slow-witted.
Vice Admiral George Morris was in fact lightning-witted. A former Commanding Officer of the massive John C. Stennis Carrier Battle Group (CVBG), he had ruled his flotilla of twelve warships, eighty-four fighter-bomber aircraft, and thousands of men with a quiet certainty that was admired throughout the U.S. Navy. No one gets to command a modern CVBG without an intellect hovering close to genius level.
At the conclusion of his seagoing days he had been handpicked by the Big Man himself to move into the NSA. Then, one year ago, Vice Admiral Arnold Morgan had announced that George Morris would succeed him as Director, when Arnold Morgan moved to the White House.
Most new National Security Advisers to the President recommended things. Arnold Morgan did not recommend. He ordered. And when he ordered, people jumped. Sometimes on all five continents.
Admiral Morris sat comfortably in the Big Chair in Fort Meade, and everyone knew he was in it for as long as he wanted to be. Except, of course, when the Big Man from the White House came visiting and automatically walked straight in and sat right down at his old desk. It was as if Arnold Morgan considered he held both top jobs in National Security, rather than just the one at the right hand of the President.
“Scotty,” said Admiral Morris. “This is a goddamned interesting piece of journalism. Full of facts. And some of ’em may even be true.”
“Yes. I thought so, sir.”
“But I think enough of this is obviously true for us to make a pretty simple worst-case judgment.”
“Sir?”
“I think we got a fucking tiger out there. And he’s not on our side. This Kerman bastard has gone over the wall. No doubt in my mind.”
“Er, actually I think he went around the wall, Admiral.”
Big George paused, smiled. “Exactly so, Scotty,” he said at length. “Around the goddamned wall, right in the middle of Hebron. Right now it’s only a very uncomfortable possibility. But in my opinion, that’s where he’s gone. And that requires some action. Just in case it’s true.
“Scotty, I want you to tell someone to bring us some coffee. I need to think. And I think better when I’m awake…and when I have someone to talk to. How long you got?”
“I’m here till 0400, sir,” said Captain Wade, making for the door.
“That’s good. We’ll arrive at some good conclusions. Nice and steady.”
Ten minutes later, sipping black coffee in the relative calm of OPS-2B in the dead of night, the two men took a serious run at the problem Whitehall had so far not dared to name.
“If this guy is on the loose,” the Rear Admiral said slowly, “what’s the worst thing that could happen, from our point of view?”
“I guess he could train a group of Arab terrorists to hit at the Israelis with the same kind of efficiency the SAS use against their enemies.”
“Correct. That’s what he could do. And I guess we have to ask ourselves first, for whom would he be likely to do this?”
“I would say, sir, we are almost certainly looking at Hamas, the old Islamic Resistance Movement. Even now it’s still the main Palestinian fundamentalist political movement out there. The whole organization grew out of that Muslim Brothers outfit downon the Gaza Strip—every time we conduct a search for terrorist action in Israel it always leads to Hamas.”
“Remind me, Scotty. Who runs it?”
“That’s hard to know. The main leader was old Sheik Ahmed Yassin, but the Israelis popped him in the slammer ten years ago. Since then Hamas has been responsible for building a lot of Palestinian schools and hospitals, but every now and then they break cover and do something insane.
“My department thinks that since the various peace initiatives have broken down, Hamas has become a bigger and bigger player, challenging the PLO for pole position. Just about every big bang in downtown Jerusalem and Tel Aviv in the last few years has been directly linked to
Vice Admiral George Morris was in fact lightning-witted. A former Commanding Officer of the massive John C. Stennis Carrier Battle Group (CVBG), he had ruled his flotilla of twelve warships, eighty-four fighter-bomber aircraft, and thousands of men with a quiet certainty that was admired throughout the U.S. Navy. No one gets to command a modern CVBG without an intellect hovering close to genius level.
At the conclusion of his seagoing days he had been handpicked by the Big Man himself to move into the NSA. Then, one year ago, Vice Admiral Arnold Morgan had announced that George Morris would succeed him as Director, when Arnold Morgan moved to the White House.
Most new National Security Advisers to the President recommended things. Arnold Morgan did not recommend. He ordered. And when he ordered, people jumped. Sometimes on all five continents.
Admiral Morris sat comfortably in the Big Chair in Fort Meade, and everyone knew he was in it for as long as he wanted to be. Except, of course, when the Big Man from the White House came visiting and automatically walked straight in and sat right down at his old desk. It was as if Arnold Morgan considered he held both top jobs in National Security, rather than just the one at the right hand of the President.
“Scotty,” said Admiral Morris. “This is a goddamned interesting piece of journalism. Full of facts. And some of ’em may even be true.”
“Yes. I thought so, sir.”
“But I think enough of this is obviously true for us to make a pretty simple worst-case judgment.”
“Sir?”
“I think we got a fucking tiger out there. And he’s not on our side. This Kerman bastard has gone over the wall. No doubt in my mind.”
“Er, actually I think he went around the wall, Admiral.”
Big George paused, smiled. “Exactly so, Scotty,” he said at length. “Around the goddamned wall, right in the middle of Hebron. Right now it’s only a very uncomfortable possibility. But in my opinion, that’s where he’s gone. And that requires some action. Just in case it’s true.
“Scotty, I want you to tell someone to bring us some coffee. I need to think. And I think better when I’m awake…and when I have someone to talk to. How long you got?”
“I’m here till 0400, sir,” said Captain Wade, making for the door.
“That’s good. We’ll arrive at some good conclusions. Nice and steady.”
Ten minutes later, sipping black coffee in the relative calm of OPS-2B in the dead of night, the two men took a serious run at the problem Whitehall had so far not dared to name.
“If this guy is on the loose,” the Rear Admiral said slowly, “what’s the worst thing that could happen, from our point of view?”
“I guess he could train a group of Arab terrorists to hit at the Israelis with the same kind of efficiency the SAS use against their enemies.”
“Correct. That’s what he could do. And I guess we have to ask ourselves first, for whom would he be likely to do this?”
“I would say, sir, we are almost certainly looking at Hamas, the old Islamic Resistance Movement. Even now it’s still the main Palestinian fundamentalist political movement out there. The whole organization grew out of that Muslim Brothers outfit downon the Gaza Strip—every time we conduct a search for terrorist action in Israel it always leads to Hamas.”
“Remind me, Scotty. Who runs it?”
“That’s hard to know. The main leader was old Sheik Ahmed Yassin, but the Israelis popped him in the slammer ten years ago. Since then Hamas has been responsible for building a lot of Palestinian schools and hospitals, but every now and then they break cover and do something insane.
“My department thinks that since the various peace initiatives have broken down, Hamas has become a bigger and bigger player, challenging the PLO for pole position. Just about every big bang in downtown Jerusalem and Tel Aviv in the last few years has been directly linked to
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