The Big Blue Sky: Fourteen

It was perhaps a misleading word to describe the White House Situation Room as just that. It was a complex. On the ground floor of the sprawling West Wing, a busy operations center funneled information from around the planet, analyzing and prioritizing events twenty-four hours a day; a nerve center processing the unfolding history of the world.

Through the operations center was the iconic Situation Room, otherwise known as the Videao Conference Center. Just off the Situation Complex the Video Conference Center had suddenly become the hub of activity. Military and civilian aides came and went with frenetic energy, their faces as grave as if they themselves were fighting for life upon the Persian desert. That maddening pace came quite suddenly to a stop as the President arrived.

He was flanked closely by George Osborne, a white-haired curmudgeonly, but eminently capable, National Security Advisor. A former Green Beret turned spy, Osborne looked the part of a shadowy intelligence officer, with round spectacles, piercing blue eyes and an eternally clenched jaw, as if he was calculating the fate of the world at any given moment. In contrast to the President, Osborne seemed fully out of place in suits, bulging in places, sagging in others and swimming in still more.

The rabble at the door parted dutifully. The military men and women snapped smartly to attention, their civilian counterparts offering respectably corporate nods. Everyone in the room turned, their expressions stark and severe, as the president entered. He’d come straight from a donor’s dinner, begging an early leave after getting the news out of Iran from an aide. The room was narrow and claustrophobic. It was windowless, the dark paneled walls broken only by video monitors that connected all the major branches of government during a crisis wherever in the world they might be. There was another larger monitor on the wall opposite. A long conference table dominated the room. At the far end of the table, above the chairman’s position was a large Presidential seal.

Standing before a large video monitor were two of the available Joint Chiefs, General Bernaski of the Air Force, and Major General Keil of the Marine Corps. Next to Keil were Defense Secretary Burger, and the Vice President, a normally jocular sort, an Army veteran who seemed utterly devastated by the grainy satellite video on the monitor. UN Ambassador Spurlock arrived behind the President, begging her pardon and taking a seat beside Burger. She looked more like a college English professor, peering over a thick pair of eyeglasses at the President.

Aides and assistants came and went as the growing crisis drew in more and more of the government. FOX had already reported the crash of a US “aircraft on the Iranian mainland,” citing an unnamed source but could no other details.

The mood was predictably weighted and sober. It recalled the dark and uncertain hours of the September attacks in New York and the Pentagon, when this room became the nerve center for the nation. The President, aware that too much sobriety could skew perspective, sought to siphon off the tension of the moment, and offered a sympathetic smile.

“This is why all my predecessors went gray prematurely.”

There was significant danger in losing perspective. Fundamental was the knowledge that there were lives at risk on both sides. It would be easy enough for emotion to carry the moment. The terrible images unfolding on the monitor made that plain enough. It would be easy to feed more lives into the moment, to escalate and retaliate, but to what end? No, what was needed was to strike the proper balance between emotion and logic. Too much logic and the President risked becoming a pragmatist, and playing to the angles instead of humanity, and history was in the end a pronouncement of the participant’s humanity.

The President was tall, but not imposing. He seemed to slouch just a bit, as if worrying that his height might become intimidating. His almond skin projected a vitality not seen in the Oval Office since the Kennedy Administration. It was partly that quality that had helped him face a daunting number of crises, which any President would have found stunning and historic in the confluence. From the economy, to two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, to an unfolding oil spill devastating the Gulf Coast. He was collected and calculated, criticized by pundits and supporters alike for being too nuanced and not as cartoonishly condescending as the former office holder. Everyone took their seats around the table without taking their eyes off the monitor.

“How old is this?” asked the President.

“Live, Mister President,” replied the VP.

The President pursed his lips tightly, and chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we’ll get to the how and why later. Options?”

“Mister President,” offered General Bernaski, “the Air Force is prepared to rain hell down upon the Iranians. I can surround those boys,” he motioned to the monitor, “with a ring of fire in forty minutes.”

The President studied the terrible images. By the looks of things forty minutes was a luxury the survivors didn’t have any longer.

“I have five thousand Marines I can have on the ground in six hours, if necessary, “ said Keil. "If the Mullahs want a fight, we’ll give ‘em a fight.”

“How big a force are we facing right now?”

“Mister Osborne?”

The NSA cleared his throat. Since the start of the meeting, indeed almost before he was seated, Osborne was scribbling notes. The room fell silent for an uncomfortably long moment as he finished a brief note. He brought the pen up high and clicked the ball point pen demonstrably.

“My opinion is that we don’t over think this situation. Obviously we have only a hand full of sketchy details. My sense is the Iranians reacted as we would for a hostile incursion…”

“Please, Mister Osborne!” the Air Force complained. “Our boys were on a search and rescue mission, not a ‘hostile incursion.’ Who’s side are you arguing for? We were ambushed pure and simple. End of story. I’m certain the Iranians would realize three rescue helicopters hardly constitutes an invasion.”

“Absolutely!” Keil agreed, slapping his hand on the table. Osborne, who had fallen silent when Bernaski began, stared blankly passed the men, as if they were little more than an annoyance, an impetuous child not worth the energy of a scolding.

“As I was saying, Mister President,” Osborne continued, “ what is the end game here?”


Bernaski started to respond, but relented when the President held up a hand. “Go on, George.”

“By the time we mobilize any meaningful force we will be in a hostage situation, or fighting to recover bodies we would eventually get back anyway. No, the endgame has always been Iranian nukes. We monitor the situation and use this to further back the Iranians into a position that gives us the maximum possible leverage.”

“Secretary Burger, what are we facing here?” asked the President.

“They have a reinforced infantry battalion, two armored units and more on the way,” said the Pentagon Secretary. “Significant coastal batteries, naval and air assets. They would have to be eliminated before a rescue could be mounted. My apologies to General Bernaski, but Admiral Danzig estimated it would take two days to punch an adequate hole and secure a corridor, even still it would take a massive force, twelve to fourteen thousand on the ground to maintain that corridor. We ran the figures, tentatively, of course, and came to an estimated thirty-five percent casualties.”

The President’s attention was drawn fully to the images on the monitor as two soldiers dragged a wounded buddy closer to the smoking helicopter fuselage. Incoming rounds splashed at the sand around the beleaguered men.

“Sir, those men are dying,” said the Veil. “We go in hard and fast with enough firepower to sweep any resistance aside. Catch them off balance. By the time they recover we’ll be gone.”

“Any other options?” said the President.

“Always options, Mister President,“ the VP replied.

“Good ones?”

“That’s a different question.”

The emotion in the room peaked, driving it almost to the breaking point.

"With all due…” the Air force general began. The president raised a hand, cutting him off.

“The clock is ticking. I want a solid plan.”

“History favors the bold, Mister President,” the Defense secretary offered. “It is also a graveyard for fools. The difference all too often is a matter of blind fate and false perspective.”

The President took a cleansing breath. “How many of our people are down there?”

“Estimates are 13 KIA and 7 survivors.”

“Can we get them out of this without suffering unacceptable casualties or going to war?”

The secretary looked gravely around the room, then back to the President. “Short answer, Mister President? No.”