Cooch
Copyright © 2012 Publisher Name
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0984315578
ISBN 13: 9780984315574
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62347-811-7
Acknowledgments
As a first-time author, I needed a lot of help, and got it, from friends as first readers and commenters. My sincere thanks for the efforts and contributions of, among others, Art Allen, Jack Bray, Paula Brooks, David Campbell, Gay Wind Campbell, Bruce Coleman, Bob Corman, Bruns Grayson, Judy Hamilton, Pam Hunter, Stan Joosse, Lee Keet, Jim Loy, Michael Proctor, Peter Palmisano, Leslie Rudd, and Rex Swain.
The president of the United States, Reverdy Hendrix, turned slightly toward the window. Thick bulletproof panes bent the sunlight and washed color from his face; he nodded at his visitor and waved the Secret Service agent from the room.
“Have a seat, MacMillan,” the president said, as he dropped into a deep, high-backed leather chair and picked up a pen, idly spinning it in his fingers. “The national security advisor tells me, rather urgently in fact, that you may be able to help with a serious problem that’s on my table right now. Before I discuss that problem and make a decision about how to handle it, I thought I should get to know you a bit, since I’ve ignored you until now.”
Hendrix leaned forward and said, “I have a half hour. I have an idea of what you do—sort of a tame thug, I guess. How can a man like you help me do my job better?”
Mac nodded and said, “What you call the ‘tame thug’ bit, the special ops thing, is in my mind, just a small part of what I bring to your table. I view myself as more of a problem illuminator than a solution provider. I think I bring a different perspective to national security matters.”
The president nodded, held out his hand, and moved his fingers impatiently in a “Let’s go” gesture. “We don’t have a lot of time. Take a few minutes and broadly frame a situation where you might be useful to me. Something you have been thinking about lately. Give me some reason to keep you at my crowded table.”
Mac nodded and said, “Israel is the topic.”
The president sat forward a little, paying more attention.
“Israel is having a kitten over Iran building a bomb. They think they simply can’t tolerate Iran having even a nuke or two, for fear Iran will match bombast with action and send two their way; two would wipe out about ninety percent of Israel’s population. To attack Iran, they need to safely bypass our air defense over Iraq, which is formidable and effective.”
Mac turned a little in his chair and gathered his thoughts. “The Israelis are tough beyond American perspective. There is no ethic in Israel that says one should trust in fellow man. They tried that; it didn’t work.”
The president leaned back in his chair and was silent for a few seconds. “And for this little piece of speculation, why do I need you, and what is your advice to me today concerning Israel and Iran?”
“My advice to you is that you should consider that you may receive a call at oh-three hundred some morning that says Israel has called on the hotline to notify us they are coming over our defenses in thirty minutes to get Iran, and they will use all the fighter cover in their arsenal to protect their bombers. They say if we want to mix it up with them, that would be unfortunate, but necessary, as they see it.”
The president reached into his desk drawer, stood, shook out a cigarette from a half-empty pack, and lit it with a cheap gas lighter. “Well, that’s a little harsh. Go on.”
“My advice is that we will lose a bunch of airplanes and maybe a ship or two, guided missile cruisers in particular; the Israelis are very, very good and well-equipped. We’ll get them all, even if it’s not until they’re on the way out; their pilots will expect to die and will get their job done first.
“So, in that scenario I still consider somewhat likely, ‘what therefore shall we do?’ as the critical thinkers like to ask,” Mac said. “I don’t know. But I doubt you want that decision made, or want to make it, in the fog of an oh-three hundred awakening, without the advantage of intelligence or background discussion.”
“Dammit, MacMillan,” the president snapped, “how is it that I hear this first from you?”
“Mr. President, I can only assume that you didn’t ask or it didn’t come up, and that’s no surprise, given the huge numbers of things going on here. I don’t have a full-time job involving bosses and conflicting priorities. I gather data, read reports, and just crunch things around in my head and draw tentative conclusions. That’s my job.”
The president stared at Mac for a second, and then asked, “And what opinion would I get from the chairman of the joint chiefs on your opinions, your advice?”
“That’s above my pay grade. He knows vastly more about the execution of a thing like that than I do, and how we would fare against an all-out effort by Israel to destroy Iran’s nuke capability. I imagine the chairman has an informed opinion about what that sort of combat mix-up would do to our readiness if we took predicted losses, and how Israel would survive without an effective air force that the US destroyed. On that issue, someone else will likely have an opinion about the stability of the Middle East. The whole topic seems worth early, thoughtful consideration. That is my textured advice.”
“Okay. Got it. Any comments or questions? You have eleven minutes left,” the president said as he began to move folders on his desk and flicked some ashes into a hexagonal glass ashtray with “Put It Out!” engraved on its base. It had been a gift from his wife.
“No, sir,” Mac said.
“Okay, I understand who and what you think you are. So, let’s move on. As I mentioned earlier, we have a particularly nasty and immediate national security issue.” Hendrix picked up one of the thick folders. “As I said, I’m led to believe this kind of thing is down your alley. I’d like you to read through this and come up with solid advice or a solution. If you come up with a solution, you’ll be provided with whatever assets you need, given deniability.”
“Yes, sir.” Mac took the package.
“No questions, MacMillan?”
“No, sir. Maybe later, but probably not.”
“You’re growing on me, MacMillan. That’s scary. Advise me on this issue; then we’ll talk about your future.” He picked up the briefing sheet for his next appointment and stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray. “You are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir,” MacMillan said as he stood and spun, then walked briskly to the door.
The president watched, somewhat bemused, as MacMillan walked out with his shoulders squared, but with little apparent sign of tension in his stride. He looked down at the briefing sheet for his next appointment. Gear change, he thought, and let a little grin slide out. Damn! I like this job. Never a dull moment. Then his head snapped up.
“MacMillan!” Hendrix said.
MacMillan stopped, and spun to him. “Yes, sir?” he said.
“Just curious. Do you see yourself as the gunny in Eastwood’s Heartbreak Ridge, or what?”
“Aha, another Eastwood fan,” MacMillan said with a grin. “I liked that gunny, Tom Sunday, as I recall, but he’s a little out of control early on for me. We need those guys on the ground, but I’m well past that. If I had to pick, I see myself more as a William Munny in Unforgiven. You do what you gotta do when things get ugly.”
The president gave a little grin and said, “Do you think Eastwood has popular influence, beyond the obvious? And what do you think his broad message is, if he has one?”
“Yes, sir, I do think he has broad popular appeal,” Mac said. “I think he is a talented chronicler of our times, just as Louis L’Amour was for the nineteenth century and a little more. Hell, Louis L’Amour won a presidential award of some sort for his tales. Eastwood is telling stories of today. Maybe you’ll give Eastwood a medal.”
Hendrix let go with a snort. “Hell, I’d at least be selling to the middle of the voter market, bent to the right.”
MacMillan stood quiet.
“You are dismissed,” the president said with a smile and a nod.
MacMillan spun and walked through the White House and from the West Wing across the small, paved pathway to his tiny office in the Old Executive Office Building next door. He sat down and began to read, and quickly began to consider how to best use his lethal little band of warriors.
Contents
Acknowledgments
New York West Side
New York Downtown
New York Midtown
New York Downtown
Audley, South Carolina Twenty Years Earlier
Northern Virginia
Audley
Cuchulain Residence
US Marine Corps Recruiting Depot Parris Island, South Carolina
Parris Island
South Carolina
The Farm Williamsburg, Virginia
Audley
Audley
Audley Dawn
The Farm Much Later
Rural Thailand
Southern Virginia
The Old Frog Restaurant
Holland
Amsterdam The Following Day
East Coast, United States Later
Southern Spain
Sheikh Kufdani’s Residence
Tangier
England
Lebanon The Planning Phase
Lebanon The Action Phase
London Whites Club
New York City The Present Day
Washington, DC
New York
John F. Kennedy AirportQueens
Silicon Valley
San Jose, California
San Jose
Menlo Park, California
Menlo Park
The Offices of Oro Distribution
Washington, DC
Silicon Valley
Palo Alto, California
Menlo Park
Stanford Medical Center
Washington, DC
New York
West Side
THE late-afternoon crowd was thinning around Columbus Circle, as rush hour faded into early evening and the pigeons settled on the head and shoulders of Christopher’s statue, busily ridding themselves of the late-day’s pickings. A sliver of new moon was peeking over Central Park, and the view across the Park from the mezzanine of the Time Warner building was stunning. Inside Per Se, a tall man in a suit leaned casually against the wall, talking to the restaurant’s host. He was dark, with a slightly crooked, hooked nose, an old thin scar running from above his right ear to the corner of his upper lip, and a scattering of small irregular scars across his forehead. His hair was thick and black, worn long but expensively styled. He wore a grey suit with faint pink pinstripes, and a pale pink shirt with a spread collar. His tie was a deep scarlet, tied four-in-hand and pulled snug to his throat.
A tall, thin blonde woman hurried through the door. She looked around and smiled when she saw Cuchulain standing to her left, talking to a man in a tuxedo.
“Alex. I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I couldn’t find a cab.”
“Hi, Caitlin,” he said. “It’s not a problem. I was just gabbing a bit with my friend, Jesus. He’s the guy who did the magic of getting this reservation on a week’s notice. Someone cancelled and he grabbed it for us.”
“Good for you!” she said to Jesus, and reached to shake his hand. “I’ve been dying to eat here since you opened in New York. I ate once at your French Laundry in the Napa Valley, and it was probably the best meal I’ve ever had. The good news is that I skipped lunch today and I’m fucking famished!”
Jesus looked a little startled, then grinned and said, “Let me show you to your table, senorita. We’ll try to make you a little less hungry.”
They walked from the foyer into the restaurant, where tables were arranged on three levels, gently elevated to permit each table an unobstructed view of Columbus Circle and Central Park South. It was quiet and elegantly furnished, with dark walls set off by arctic-white table linens. Like Jesus, the entire staff was dressed formally with white shirts and black bowties, and moved about so smoothly that at first there seemed to be more staff than diners.
As they settled into their table and looked around, a waiter appeared and exchanged their white napkins for black ones to prevent white lint on dark clothes, then took a cocktail order. He put a thick wine list on the table, a menu in front of each, then faded from sight.
Alex Cuchulain was a professional investor who had made a big investment in Axial Systems, a public company with an exciting innovation in computer software. Unfortunately, he had made the investment a few months before the economy started turning sour. Alex was now actively trying to salvage his investment, but still had a deep conviction that Axial’s product could be a huge winner. The fact that he was attracted to its CEO was a bonus.
Caitlin O’Connor was the chief executive officer of Axial. Cuchulain’s reasoning for making such a big commitment had as much to do with O’Connor and her reputation as it did with the enormous size of Axial’s potential market. Caitlin O’Connor had a PhD in computational physics from Caltech and had obtained a MacArthur “genius” grant at the age of twenty-three. She had used the time and money from the award to develop a new theory on using neural networks for the design of complex networked computer systems for corporations and government. Axial was founded on that theory, and the bet was that her technology would lower the cost of developing and maintaining Internet-linked computer systems in corporate America and around the world, plummeting costs by at least a fifth. She had spent some time during and after Caltech working for the feds as a consultant, and on their grant money to develop her ideas. Now thirty-six, O’Connor had brought her company to $80 million in sales in three years and was struggling to make a profit, burning corporate cash to support expansion and enhance product, even as a weak economy suddenly drove down sales. If she could keep it together until her worldwide sales offices were productive, the company would be a big winner, and its stock would follow.
O’Connor knew almost nothing about Cuchulain, other than the fact that he was bright, moderately handsome, knew a lot about technology investing, and was reportedly quite successful. He had a thick upper body that made him appear to be in extraordinary physical condition, but she wasn’t even sure about that. He also had a sort of brooding, dark aura about him that made him seem faintly dangerous. She found that curious, and a little exciting. Alex also had impeccable, almost Old Worldly manners. That appealed to O’Connor, despite her aggressive feminism.
Caitlin had asked around about Alex after he had called her at home in California several times, trying to arrange a dinner with her when he was in California. Their schedules hadn’t meshed, but they had spent a few group lunches together on business, and met over drinks several times at industry gatherings. No one knew much about Cuchulain, and what one person thought he knew conflicted with another person’s information.
After a few acquaintances said they thought that Brooks Elliot, an investment banker whose firm had taken Axial public, had been in the navy with Alex, she had found an excuse to walk beside Elliot from a meeting at his investment bank, and had asked whether the rumors were true. She had been at Princeton with Brooks and had dated him seriously then, and again a couple of times after he had gotten out of the navy. They had both given it up when it became clear he was looking for a wife and a mother for his children-to-be; that was not her agenda. She had been surprised at the way Elliot’s face had closed up when she had asked about what she had heard regarding Cuchulain in the navy.
“I don’t know where you heard that, Katy,” Elliot had said. (He knew she hated to be called Katy). “It’s not quite true, and if it were, it would be none of your business. That was a long time ago.” Elliot had almost been rude, which was entirely out of character for him, part
icularly given their history together. This had only made her more curious about Cuchulain. Cuchulain was clearly much better friends with Brooks F.T. Elliot IV than were many of the people who had been kissing his privileged ass for years, yet the two of them appeared to have very little in common. O’Connor rarely faced problems she found difficult to solve, and this one was beginning to irritate her.
At Per Se, Cuchulain was once again stunned by O’Connor’s physical beauty. He thought how rare it was for an intellect to grow as powerful as Caitlin’s when it was required to exist and grow in the shadow of great beauty. Ordinarily, a stunning woman can get what she wants without relying on a strong intellect, and intellectual activity is consequently given short shrift. Caitlin seemed clearly an exception.
Caitlin O’Connor looked more like a runway model than a Caltech PhD. She was at least five foot ten, with wide shoulders, wide flat wrists, and muscular, long-fingered hands. She wore a black Armani suit, fitted at the waist. A blue silk blouse, jewel-necked, was draped with a single strand of pearls, shimmering white and hinting pink against her dark clothing. With the exception of an incongruously large rubber dive watch with bright yellow numerals, she wore no other jewelry. The overhead lighting cast small shadows under high cheekbones and washed color from thick, shaggy blonde hair, cut short for low maintenance. She had the fair, almost translucent skin that seems to bless only the Irish. A sprinkle of freckles splashed across her nose, accenting her blue eyes—so light that they looked washed with ice, tiny arrows of green and amber winging out from their centers.
Just then a waiter appeared bearing a silver rack with holes drilled through it, and what appeared to be two tiny ice-cream cones set into the holes.
“Compliments of the chef,” he said, and served two cake cones filled with a mixture of smoked salmon and crème fraiche. Caitlin took hers and consumed it in two large bites, then said to Cuchulain around it, “I love these things!” He took a third small bite of his cone, watching her, amused and a little disconcerted.