BACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 62. President Little tries to 'read' top secret photographic reconnaissance photos supposedly proving Iran will launch an atomic attack on Israel.

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CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

When the DOC of U.S. Cyber Command, Tom Butler, entered the Oval office, President Little sensed a man carrying a heavy load. An image came to his mind from historical photos of the nineteen century – laborers carrying bricks on their shoulders. The man was hunched over ever so slightly, but that loss of posture conveyed the psychological pressure he was under. The meeting had been scheduled for a Code- Five discussion about Iran. Since there was no code higher than ‘Five,’ it hadn't taken much effort for Jackson to guess the topic under consideration. The word was out that Iran had been building nuclear bombs secretly for years – not yet verified – and that the West needed to eradicate the threat soon, before Israel was attacked. And now the Code-Five visit.

The two men shook hands as they settled down on a small couch. Skipping other pleasantries due to the seriousness of the moment, the President dismissed the two security agents before a word was spoken. Just as soon as the Secret Service personnel had exited, the DOC launched in, quickly flipping open a sheaf of documents labeled TOP SECRET and removing three photos.

“Please excuse the directness with which I must proceed, Mr. President, but I'm afraid we have no time to waste. These photos, which we have obtained at the utmost risk to our operative inside this Iranian facility, indicate that our worst fears have been realized. They verify that Iran has nuclear capabilities, and that they are preparing for a launch with a nuclear payload. Please look for yourself.”

As with other photographic reconnaissance photos that Jackson had viewed, including the Bay of Pigs photos that he'd examined once in a textbook, his untrained eyes could hardly decipher the damning evidence. All that was visible was a wall, a few tubes, some technicians seen from above, and figures standing around in gloves, masks and smocks. He needed more clarification and asked for it.

“Sorry Tom, but I need some further explanation before I comprehend the charge you're making here.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” answered Butler.

“What you're seeing here is a heavy water production plant, which Iran has been denying for years. This photo,” he began, while shuffling to other pictures, “shows the nuclear warhead being inserted into a Redstone. This appears to be battle-ready, as...”

“Tom, I just don't see what you're presenting here. I can't decipher the information from these pictures!” President Little had clipped the last words of Butler's explanation, exasperated at being offered evidence that was so extremely difficult for the average person to read, but on which so much would depend.

“How can I, as President, order a pre-emptive strike against another country, one with which we are not currently at war, when I fail to understand the evidence?”

At this point, Butler's face broke out in sweat, perhaps from the two cups of black coffee he had slugged down moments earlier, to awake himself for the meeting. Was the fate of the Free World really resting on how well he could inform the Black man sitting to his left? He tried not to think cliché regarding the color of skin verses intelligence, but part of his upbringing was edging into play. He and his fellow South Carolina frat classmates had whiled away the hours making jokes at Black people's expense. And now his chief executive resembled the butt of all those off-color stories. He had undoubtedly been poisoned by his tidy, White, frat-rat upbringing.

“Let me just say, Mr. President, that the statements from our covert officers in the field, combined with the evidence of these surveillance photos, provide irrefutable proof that we must strike now – strike hard against Iran's facility. The time-frame of this decision is hard upon us. Unless we want to risk annihilation of Israel we must act immediately. Our guesstimate is that anytime within two days – a week at most – we will witness an act of nuclear provocation.”

The word ‘guesstimate’ somehow made the President’s insides quiver. It was a word that rankled his precise use of idioms and other legal terms. It was a made-up word, a weak word for explaining the process of analysis. Could hearing the misuse of a single word maket he difference between launching World War III, or maintaining the delicate balance of power in the Middle East? Before Little could get beyond his prejudicial feelings, Butler spoke with finality.

“Mr. President, we have no time left. We must launch an attack – bacterial or nuclear – so technicians and military personnel housed below ground are 100% terminated. We must depopulate the facility with something airborne.”

“To use nuclear weapons in the Middle East has long been thought of as striking a match in a dynamite factory. Would you say this still holds true?” The President hoped he would hear the right answer. He didn’t.

“No. Not at all,” said Butler. “In this Millennium I think we must accept the fact that nuclear warfare is just one of several options available, for protecting our citizens.”

Looking up from his folder, Butler knew that the President wasn’t buying his spiel. But he decided to go one more round.

“Ask yourself whether you’d like to see your own countrymen poisoned or killed by a direct nuclear strike or, instead watch an enemy take the hit. We believe that a small, carefully contained battlefield nuke could take out a facility better than any other method. Yes, the winds might take radiation a few hundred miles through desert, but the human loss would be that of just a few nomadic travelers, herdsmen...perhaps a couple camels.”

“I can’t send thousands to their death without evidence that I can comprehend.” The President refused to take action without indisputable evidence, And from what he saw and understood, none was forthcoming. He had learned the Bay of Pigs lesson well from the books he had read on the subject. Kennedy had been pressured – wrongly – into a under-manned, ill-conceived military action. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake.

Butler eased himself back against the cushions of the historical couch. It was the same couch, ironically, that the survivors of the Bay of Pigs had sat in when they had met with JFK, but neither man was aware of that coincidence.

The saying, “It's your funeral,” came to Butler’s mind, but he repressed stating it to the President of the Untied States. He remembered how he and his friends had used it on numerous occasions, when arguing over various summer-fun options. Inappropriate here, of course. But the Black man was too dense to see that America needed to kick some butt.

“Well, you've got our recommendation, Mr. President,” was all Butler could think of saying. “And we remain battle-ready, active, and in the circle for an attack within two hours notice. If you'd like to meet with our deep-cover operative that can be arranged, though it will eat up valuable, pre-strike time.”

Looking at his watch, seeing that his time had expired, Butler gathered his materials, stood up, and extended his hand. President Little shook it perfunctorily before escorting the intelligence officer to the door. As soon as Butler had departed, Jackson returned to the Resolute desk, lifted the receiver, and punched in four numbers. His brother answered.

“John. Need you in here immediately. It’s Iran.” John Little departed his West Wing office and traversed the maze of hallways and Secret Security stations, arriving at the Oval Office a bit winded.

“Thanks John,” said Jackson, upon sighting his twin at the door. The two men sat down on the couch in unison. After again dismissing the inner-office security personnel, Jackson lightened the burden of office a bit, by sharing his present predicament.

“I’ve been told by DOC that if I don’t immediately launch a nuclear or biological attack on Iran then Israel will be attacked. They’re talking days, maybe even hours from now. What do you think of that?”

“Jesus!”' exclaimed John, feeling his brothers dilemma. “And the DOC is sure of its findings?”

“Afraid so. Supposedly they have proof – it was presented to me here ten minutes ago. Problem is, the set of photos I saw were not conclusive, in my opinion. The reconnaissance shots were about as vague as the ones used to prove the existence of WMDs in Iraq. So I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t. They got me on this one, bro!”

“Sounds like we're being sucked into an act of war here. Got to compare this moment to both the invasion of Iraq and the Bay of Pigs. The question would have to be: is the intelligence intelligent? Are they correct this time? Because if they aren’t, you're going to go down in history as the ignorant nigger who lit the Middle East tinderbox with a nuke. Maybe be the guy who started WWIII.”

“I agree,” said the President, with an unconscious wipe of hand across his forehead. “Can this possibly be resolved diplomatically?”

Both brothers sat for several minutes without speaking. Finally John broke the silence.

“If the finding is correct then you have to act fast. Make a surgical strike, although I’ve heard that there are numerous under-ground facilities. So, how can we be sure we get all their warheads? And importantly, the surrounding friendly-to-US countries must be in accord with the decision to attack. We can’t let America get the further rep as a first-strike nation, like it was with Iraq. We can’t afford any more anti-American backlash in the region.”

President Little waited, as his brother finished his train of thought.

“So I’d say, immediately communicate with the appropriate nations, at the highest level,” said John, saying the obvious. but trying to be thorough. “Talk only to Presidents – leaders, not subordinates. Then, with a consensus, make the decision to move forward or not. In any case, a concerted effort has to be made to reduce civilian casualties. Of course, with a nuke attack that’s all off the table.”

“Thanks for the clarity, brother,” said The President. “It feels much better with you around. I'll let you know how this thing progresses.”

One and a half hours later, just before finishing up a lunch of tuna melt, chips and lemonade, President Little got an inner-office call to inform him of his mother's visit. It had been on the calendar, but under pressure regarding Iran it had been completely forgotten.

“OK, Fred, please tell Mom I'll meet her at the Oval in ten minutes. Please settle her in there until I arrive.”

As Sarah Little was shown into the Oval Office, she was struck with trepidation. All of the years of anxiety over the encounter with JFK, the memories of his hands on her, were re-lived with each and every step along the blue carpet. Settling onto the couch, she felt frozen and dead inside. Alone in the room, tears started forming, the droplets finally skidding down her cheeks. The fact of all that had happened in her life was settling in. Through her blurry vision, she stared at the wall where the secret JFK anteroom had been – a well-camouflaged continuance of wallpaper. Mustering some inner strength, she rose and walked over. Reaching out her hand she skimmed the surface, gliding her fingers over the wallpaper until she felt the slightest edge of separation – the secret doorway! Right at that moment, President Little entered the room.

“Mom. Sorry it took so long. How are you?” Jackson approached in a few spritely steps and gave a hug. With a quick wipe of tears she broke into a smile.

Over at Cyber Command, Butler had called a meeting with his assistant DOC, reserving the secure room where lead walls and the three-foot-thick construction would insure that not one syllable of their conversation leaked to unintended ears. At the least, he had to blow off some steam after meeting with the President. The instant the heavy metal door clicked shut, Butler got down to business.

“As you know, I met with Number One today. And you all know the topic. He reacted just like we thought he would, neither responding to the photos, nor respecting the CI-imposed deadline for attacking Iran. It is our finding that his foot-dragging will result in a neutralized Israel, money markets scrambling, a total re-shuffling of Middle-East priorities.” Butler let his words sink in before continuing.

“As per our earlier estimates, a first strike in Jerusalem will drop world currencies to an all-time low, at which point we're prepared to make some swift investments with our CI-op funds. That destabilization – the opportunity to buy low – will rebuild our treasury, loosening the purse strings for our basic core objectives and other projects on the table. Little's ambivalence to the Iranian nuclear threat will come back to bite him and his party's credibility. It'll take fifty years to explain why the Demos didn't react in a timely manner when presented with such clear evidence. So, well done, all around.”

***

President Jackson couldn’t get his mother to stop crying. Just the mere mention of her missing journal had snapped something inside and now she was sobbing, rocking backwards every so often, grabbing an occasional breath before continuing. He guessed he could understand the significance of such a hand-made item from his family’s past, and tried to console her, but to no avail. It took her a full five minutes for the outburst to finally peter out. Jackson hugged his mother and remained silent as she broke away, reaching out to get a tissue.

“Sorry mom” was all Jackson could muster. He knew it was his fault that he had missed the payments and had failed to supply a new billing address. With all the focus on the journal he hadn’t even thought about all the other items that he and his wife had stored there. They’d lost a couple pairs of skis that had only been used once. And there was a rollout couch that had been in pretty good shape, certainly worth storing instead of taking to the dump. All the stuff that seemed extraneous to their move to Arlington, but too valuable to leave behind – some chairs, a card table, a mirror – were gone. Of course, now he wished he’d just sold or distributed all the “junk,” and kept the journal close to his breast. In his mother's eyes, it was obviously the worst kind of disaster, and something he was powerless to put right. It took another five minutes for his mother to speak.

“Sorry dear.” Sarah wiped tears off her face. “Just really attached to my journals. That’s all.” A part of her wished she could spill the beans, reveal his true Kennedy heritage, get the dread resolved. But the moment wasn’t right. The distress that her short sentence could cause – you're fathered by JFK – was immense. And it could never be put back in the bottle.

She tried again to remember exactly what she had said in its pages. Had she simply kept the articles and her blurbs non-descript, focused solely on her admiration for President Kennedy? The years had dimmed her memory. She remembered some extreme incidents, like when she'd discovered that John and Jackson had taken money from a white woman, when John’s bike had been struck by the person’s car. And certainly she could remember graduations of her sons, their marriages to lovely women, the births of her first grandkids. But what about the page-by-page content of Journal #1? Did it reveal her secret?

She remembered writing the “Harris” name and his comments on President Kennedy, but what had she written after that? Hopefully not something like, “You children can see what a great man your father, JFK, is.”

Thinking of such disturbing possibilities broke down her fragile condition, sending her into a spate of new tears, to the total dismay of her grown Presidential son. Having a crying mother on his hands drained the last bit of his resolve regarding Iran. He was relieved that brother John was working on the problem, now that his mind had turned to jelly.

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