Twilight's Last Gleaming

By Richard Haddock

The war in Iraq and the Presidential campaign of 2008 provide the backdrop for this fictional account of where these two tumultuous events might lead. Filled with suspense, intrigue and a cast of larger-than-life characters, the story reveals the behind-the-scenes events in Washington that will surprise, shock and anger you. But the book's strongest feature is the objective portrayal of the differing perspectives and ideas that have polarized the American public and heightened their awareness of issues and the political process. Before you cast your next ballot, Twilight's Last Gleaming is a must read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 7, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595894567

Richard Haddock

Dr. Haddock is retired and lives with his wife, Marilyn, in Northern Virginia.

Book preview

Twilight’s Last

Gleaming

A Novel

Richard Haddock

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Twilight’s Last Gleaming

Copyright © 2007 by Richard Haddock

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-45146-3 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-89456-7 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

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EPILOGUE

The fear, of course, is that the perspective in this story representing reason, idealism and the inherent goodness of mankind will turn out to be naïve and unworkable; that greed, propaganda and military aggression will be the only way to preserve the American way of life. If that is true, it raises the question of what we are preserving, and for whom.

1    

September, 2007. The smells. Of all he had witnessed and experienced here in Iraq, what Sergeant Hector Morales would remember most were the smells. The distinctive odor of curry. The acrid ammonia from urine. The ever present body odor of people living in constant fear. All baked together in the cauldron of hundred degree days. Morales took a deep breath of the familiar aroma and squinted through his green night vision goggles at the suspicious vehicle. The white van was parked in front of the Al Khabar hotel, once a popular gathering place for Sunni members of Hussein’s government. The hotel had been bombed twice by Shiite insurgents since January. Its reconstruction, like most such efforts in Baghdad, was painfully slow.

Somewhere off in the distance a dog barked. Morales checked his watch. Nineteen hundred hours. It was dark now, but the temperature was still over ninety degrees. The sweat slid down his face and onto the collar of his fatigues.

Morales was with the 85th Division of the California National Guard, serving its second tour in Iraq. Unlike the first time, when there was more of a gung-ho, can-do attitude, the focus now was on staying out of trouble and getting the hell home in one piece. Ninety-one days and counting.

The assignment for his twelve man squad tonight was patrolling sector five Charlie, a four square mile area on the south side of the city. There had been no incidents of note here recently, but everyone in Baghdad was nervous; every day brought another wave of insurgency and even more sectarian bombings.

Morales scanned the area. The afternoon report had indicated that three workmen had been in and out of the van all day, working inside the hotel. The workmen had disappeared, but their vehicle remained.

Morales gave a hand signal to his squad and they fanned out, five to his left side, six to the right. They started towards the van, trying to stay low and as quiet as possible. Morales thought investigating an empty vehicle parked in front of a vacant hotel was a waste of time. But orders were orders. Besides, it was better than the police training detail other units were having to endure. The squad inched its way closer to the hotel and the van parked in front of it.

Suddenly the night sky behind the Al Khabar erupted like an instant sunrise. Before Morales could react he was knocked down by the force of the blast, followed by the deafening roar of the explosion. Debris, shattered glass and a howling windstorm tore at his clothing. It was, he imagined, like being caught in the middle of a tornado. A heavy blanket of chalky dust began to settle, covering the squad like snow. As he struggled to clear his head, Morales noticed the taillights of the van come on, glowing like two red eyes through the swirling haze. Stop the van! Stop it! he yelled into his headset.

The vehicle moved directly towards the squad. A corporal aimed his submachine gun and squeezed off a few rounds at the front tires and engine, a shot pattern designed to disable the vehicle but not anyone inside, just as he’d been trained. Capturing these guys for interrogation was considered more important than simply shooting them, an order that made Morales nervous. The van lurched to a stop, apparently disabled. Seven members of the squad quickly surrounded it, weapons trained.

The wind carried the sounds of crumpling concrete and the groaning of twisted steel from the Al Khabar. Morales stole a glance in that direction, saw the flames pouring from the front of the hotel. Shit, he said, wondering if any workmen might still be inside. First things first, he reminded himself. He had his orders.

Two members of the squad pulled the back doors of the van open while others trained their rifles and flashlights inside. From the dark interior of the van a hand emerged waving a white handkerchief, followed by the face of a very frightened young man. He was pulled forward and onto the ground by one of Morales’ men. Another man sat on the floor of the van, hands raised. Both suspects were dressed in white painters’ outfits.

Weren’t there supposed to be three? yelled a corporal.

The strong beams of the flashlights criss-crossed the interior of the truck. It was empty. One of the soldiers moved closer and spotted something on the floor. Well, lookee here, he said, reaching for what appeared to be a cell phone.

Don’t touch it! Morales yelled. It might be booby-trapped. The soldier jumped back like he had seen a snake.

The two suspects were searched and their hands cuffed behind their backs. Morales caught his breath, then called headquarters through his headset. Got us some bad guys here, Captain. Caught ‘em red-handed. He gave his location and a quick description of the situation to the Officer of the Day (O.D.). The O.D. indicated that an M.P. squad was on its way to take charge of the suspects.

A Private came running up to Morales. Sarge, Phillips and Edwards are down, he said, gesturing back toward the Al Khabar where two other members

of the squad were bent over their fallen comrades. It looks bad, Sarge, the Private said.

Keep an eye on these two, Morales ordered, gesturing towards the prisoners. He turned and ran back to where Private Phillips lay sprawled on the street, eyes open and fixed.

The soldier who had been tending to Phillips stood up, his face twisted in disbelief. I think he’s dead, Sarge, he said, his voice cracking with emotion. Debris from the explosion at the Al Khabar had torn a huge hole in the side of Private Phillips’ head.

Shit! Morales said. Ted Phillips had a wife and baby girl back home. Ninety-one days. Shit!

Morales moved a few feet further to where the squad’s medic was tending to Private Ben Edwards. Edwards was lying in a pool of blood, his left leg missing, his cries of pain mixed with the roaring inferno of the Al Khabar just a hundred feet behind them.

I’ve called for an ambulance, the medic yelled, tightening a tourniquet above what remained of Edwards’ left knee.

Morales reached out and tapped the medic’s helmet. Do what you can, corporal. Then to Edwards. Hang on, Edwards. Help’s on the way, son. He looked down at Edwards, certain from the young man’s blood-soaked uniform that he would not survive the trip back to the E.R. in Baghdad’s green zone, just two miles away.

Morales looked back across the street at the two prisoners. He stormed back towards them, his anger raging, and pushed his rifle barrel into the younger prisoner’s chest. I ought to waste your worthless ass right here, he said, teeth bared.

The young man stared back at Morales, eyes wide, lips quivering. The other prisoner stood casually, as if waiting for the next bus, his eyes inspecting the remains of the Al Khabar.

A soldier pulled at Morales arm. Sarge, come on, the M.P.’s are here. They’ll take care of these guys.

Morales continued to glare at the two prisoners, the barrel of his rifle still pushing into the younger man’s chest. No one would blame him if he blew the bastard’s head off, Morales thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the jeep full of M.P.s barreling towards them. He lowered his weapon but kept his eyes riveted on the young prisoner whose face looked drained of blood. The second captive stared blankly off into space, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

Where the hell is the ambulance? the medic yelled. As if in answer to his question, an ambulance careened around the corner and screeched to a stop right in front of him. Two other corpsmen jumped out and the three medics loaded Edwards, then Phillips into the vehicle and sped off towards the E.R.

Meanwhile, the M.P.’s had performed their duty just as quickly, securing the two prisoners inside a detention wagon. Good job, Sarge, the M.P. Lieutenant said. Hope your guys are O.K., he said, staring off after the ambulance.

Thank you, sir, Morales said, saluting. The detention wagon and the M.P.’s jeep pulled away and Morales rallied the remainder of his squad, all of them shaken by what had happened to their fellow soldiers. Come on, guys, he said. They all moved towards the Al Khabar to assess the damage and radio their report back to headquarters. As he hustled across the courtyard littered with glass and chunks of concrete, Morales fought to get Philips and Edwards out of his mind.

Both were from San Diego, each counting the days until they could go home. Well, they would both be going home now, Morales thought. He gritted his teeth, fighting back tears. He had seen death before, even lost some close friends, but twenty year old kids, well, it just wasn’t right. What in the hell had they died for?

The heat from the fire in the hotel was intense and Morales shifted his thoughts to the problem at hand. Was there another bomb here, timed to go off just as they arrived on the scene? He signaled for the squad to stop, their necks craned to watch the fire spread to the hotel’s top floor. There was nothing they could do now. Another day in hell. Another two young men gone. Bastards! Morales hissed, an expression of frustration and hatred that was aimed at more people than just the two terrorists they had captured tonight. When was all this insanity going to end?

2    

Clint Riley sat in the anteroom outside the Oval Office waiting to see the President of the United States. Just back from his third trip to Iraq in the past ninety days for the State Department, Clint had been summoned to this morning’s meeting unexpectedly, told only that the President wanted an informal debrief on his trips. No presentation, just a thirty minute chat.

Clint had never met Logan Anderson before, but thirty minutes to discuss the complexities of the Iraq situation was consistent with Anderson’s purported penchant for only the highest level of information. Details apparently bored the man.

The attractive young woman at the desk across from him stood up and said, Mr. Riley, the President will see you now. She motioned toward the door behind her. You only have thirty minutes, she reminded him, opening the door and flashing him a serious look.

Thanks, Margaret, he said. I’ll do my best to keep him on schedule. Margaret smiled and closed the door behind him.

Logan Anderson was on the phone but motioned for Clint to have a seat on the yellow couch in the middle of the room. Before Clint could be seated the President had hung up and was on his feet. Clint Riley, he said, hand outstretched. Thanks for coming over to see me this morning. He shook Clint’s hand with the firmness of a veteran campaigner, then motioned for him to have a seat.

The President sat down in his favorite overstuffed armchair opposite Clint and pulled out his reading glasses, then reached for a thick manila folder on the adjacent table and opened it on his lap. You’ve got quite a dossier, Clint, he said, leafing through the folder. Thirty year civil servant, started with the CIA as an operative in the Middle East. He looked up from the file. Says here you were instrumental in helping bring Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin together for the 1978 Camp David accord?

Yes, sir.

And that you helped negotiate the release of our embassy hostages in Iran in 1980?

Clint nodded. Yes, sir.

How did you manage that, if I might ask?

I knew some of the student leaders, convinced them of the harm they were doing their country, explained the good will they could generate with our new President.

Anderson pursed his lips, then returned his attention to Clint’s dossier. Ten years as special Middle East advisor to the JCS. Again, helped negotiate an end to the Iran-Iraq war in 1988. He turned a page. Last ten years with the State Department, special liaison to the Middle East. He closed the folder. I’m told you’re a problem solver, Clint. A guy who does his best work behind the scenes and out of the limelight. That true?

Clint drew a breath and released it. I guess that would be an accurate description, yes sir.

Well, Clint, as you are aware, I’ve got a heck of a problem in Iraq right now. Tell me about your recent visits there. What’s your assessment?

How does one tell the President of the United States that his war is a disaster, Clint thought? Where to begin?

Clint, the President said. I know we’ve got our panties in a knot over there and I’ve received more than my share of criticism, but I’ve also been fed a lot of sugar coated hogwash. I need an honest, bare-knuckled perspective. Now give me your candid opinion.

O.K., Clint thought. Here goes. Our fundamental problem, sir, was in not thoroughly understanding or appreciating the culture, the history and the ideology of the region and anticipating the sectarian violence that would ensue once we toppled Hussein. All the reasons that we didn’t oust him after the first Gulf War.

The President took off his reading glasses and sat back in his chair, studying Clint intently. Go on.

The military part of the invasion was predictable; Hussein’s army was ill-equipped and no match for us in any manner, but our de-Baathification program, removing anyone who was a member of Hussein’s Baath party from the Army was a disaster. Not only did we disband the forces we would need to help establish security, but we sent them packing with all their weapons, weapons they would eventually use against us. Then removing all the Sunnis from their positions in Government absolutely crippled their infrastructure. The Sunnis ran the ministries and dumping them for political reasons effectively brought their economy to a grinding halt. Clint shook his head. Terrible mistake.

The President’s face had transformed into a serious frown, but he nodded, indicating that Clint should go on.

Then, not having foreseen the impact of these decisions we had no plan to replace these people. When we tried to correct that problem we sent people over there based on their political affiliation, not their nation-building expertise. Another recipe for failure. Then there was the battle between DoD and State. Who’s in charge of what? Who reports to who? Who controls the money and how it’s spent? It’s how we wound up with critical shortages such as body armor. Everybody thought somebody else was responsible. Clint drew a breath. But I’m certain you know all that, sir?

The President flashed a thin smile. Well, I was warned that you were to-the-point and that’s good. I appreciate your perspective. But I can’t undo the past, Clint. What I need to know is what can I do now? I’m sick of all this failure. Clearly the American public is tired of it all. Heck, we got our butts kicked in the mid-terms and I don’t blame the electorate. We need success here, Clint. Even the smallest measure of progress would be great news. We’re sinking in the quicksand and I’m reaching out for help. This is no longer just a political issue. We owe the Iraqi people a better effort, a better life than what they had under Hussein. You’ve been there. You understand the region. Where do we start?

Clint’s mind raced through the scores of options and actions he had developed during his information-gathering trips. There are some fundamental communication issues that need to be addressed. The first would involve you and your cabinet. The President raised an eyebrow. I know that the people you have running your agencies are all experienced CEO’s in the business world, but they’re each running their departments independently, each defending their own turf, fighting for their own budgets, trying to run standalone organizations rather than be a part of a coordinated effort that’s trying to achieve objectives greater than their own. Have you considered—

The President raised a hand. Clint, these are all personal friends, men that are loyal to me. I’ve worked with them my whole life. I won’t entertain replacing them. He lowered his hand and his face grew serious again. Sometimes, Clint, loyalty is more important than mere competence. I know you might disagree with that, but it’s how I’ve run my life and I won’t change now.

Sometimes, sir, loyalty translates into being yes men, never giving the boss bad news, never offering alternatives that go against the tide. Loyal or not, sir, they need some clear boundaries on their responsibilities here, some guidance on exactly what they should and should not be doing with regard to Iraq. What they need is leadership from you in that regard, sir. Communication.

Logan Anderson smiled. You don’t believe in wearing kid gloves, do you, Clint? He raised a hand. That’s O.K. I’ve asked for a candid assessment and that’s what you’re giving me. Go on.

One of the major problems in Iraq is communication as well. I recommended a translator recruitment program to State but they tell me that DoD rejected the idea based on security reasons. Anybody who speaks Arabic can’t be trusted. That sort of mentality. How can we communicate with the man in the street if we can’t even speak his language? How can we tell him what we’re trying to do and how he can help if we can’t speak his language? This is just one of scores of ideas I’ve forwarded to my management that have disappeared into the maze of inter-governmental red tape.

The President templed his fingers against his lips, studying his companion. Finally he said, Clint, let me be blunt. I need someone like you to help me. A special assistant with broad powers, powers to get to the core of these problems and to give me advice on how to solve them.

I’m not a politician, sir. I—

"I’m not looking for a politician, Clint. Heck, you swing a dead cat around here you’d hit a hundred of them. No, what I need is a problem solver who also knows the Middle East like the back of his hand. Your resume is unique in that

regard and you’ve got to admit, Iraq is a set of problems worthy of your exper-»

tise."

Clint shook his head. Sir, with respect, I disagree with your objectives in Iraq and I’m appalled at the needless death and destruction that we’ve caused through fundamental mismanagement. I—

Look, Clint. I don’t care whether you believe in what we’re doing in Iraq or not. Our country is in trouble over there and we need all the brainpower we can muster to set things right. The sooner we can solve our problems the sooner we can bring our troops home. I’m as upset as you are at the loss of life, but here’s a chance for you to help me do something about it.

The old man was a helluva salesman, Clint thought. Suggestions are a dime a dozen, sir. If we can’t get them implemented they’re worthless.

Clint, I assure you, you come up with ideas that will fix our problems, you’ll have the backing of this office to make them happen. I’m not interested in another darn study, I want results. Look, I’ll give you unlimited access to me and whoever else in the administration you need. There’ll be no red tape. Any document, any report, any presentation you want to see will be yours. You’ll become part of my inner circle with a voice in every decision regarding Iraq.

Clint couldn’t believe this was happening. Like many Americans he had formed his own opinion of the war and what to do about it, yet here was the President of the United States offering him the opportunity to act on his opinions, to contribute to the solutions that were so desperately needed. No matter what he thought of the man and his policies, how could he refuse his President? As his brain began to process the necessary chain of events required to make this happen he heard himself say, I would need to transition my work at State—

That won’t be necessary, Clint. I want you to begin right now. I’ve assigned you an office up the hall and we’ll arrange for whatever staff support you need. I’ll introduce you to the national security team at tomorrow morning’s daily briefing. We don’t have any time to waste, Clint.

Clint was in shock. Up until this meeting his mind had been focused on his pending retirement and looking for a challenging job in private industry. Yet here he was faced with the most challenging job of his career. And he was to start right now. His instincts to serve his country, to apply his knowledge and experience in the most meaningful way he could think of, took control. His would no longer be a career that ended with a whimper, but with real meaning. He stood up and reached for the President’s hand. I’m honored that you would put such trust in me, sir.

The President stood and pumped Clint’s hand. Clint, I’m honored to have you as part of the team. Your country will be forever grateful.

The door opened and Margaret signaled that the President was due at his next meeting. Margaret, Logan Anderson said, patting Clint on the back. Get Clint all set with building passes and get all his State Department clearances transferred to the West Wing. He’s part of our team now.

Margaret took Clint by the arm and led him out of the Oval Office. I’ll introduce you to your new administrative assistant who will show you your office and get you started. She smiled up at him. Welcome to the team, Mr. Riley. Then with a look of fatigued resignation. We need all the help we can get.

3    

Mr. Riley? the man in the dark suit asked.

Clint looked up from the report he was reading. Yes?

I’m here to escort you to the DNI briefing with the President, he said, referring to the Daily National Intelligence meeting.

Clint glanced at his watch. Seven in the morning. He rubbed at his eyes, realizing he had been here in his new West Wing office all night. Be right with you, he said, rolling his sleeves down and adjusting his tie. He ran a hand over his beard. Guess I don’t have time to shave?

No, sir. We have to meet the President at the DUCC elevator. The DUCC (Deep Underground Command Center) was located two hundred and fifty feet below the White House and had been built as part of the revamping of the historic structure during the Truman administration. The DUCC was originally envisioned as a fallout shelter, to be used by select occupants of the building who had not been evacuated to other secure facilities, but over the years it had been converted into a command-and-control center, known in the White House as the situation room."

O.K., Clint said, running a hand through his hair. Let’s go.

The Secret Service agent led Clint down the hallway outside his office, down a short flight of stairs and up to an elevator entrance. The agent looked at his watch and touched his earpiece. He looked at Clint. He’s on his way, sir.

Clint nodded, yawned and wondered if his eyes were bloodshot. He had started through a file cabinet full of material yesterday after his interview with the President and had become so engrossed he worked right through the night. A crew had been sent over to his office at the State Department where they packed all his personal belongings and brought them to his office here in the West Wing. Those boxes sat untouched on his credenza.

The elevator doors opened suddenly and there stood the President. In the elevator with him was his Secret Service escort for the morning and a Navy Captain who carried the black box, the computer containing the launch codes that could release nuclear war upon the world.

Good morning, Clint, the President said, eyeing his newest employee warily. You look like you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.

Yes, sir, Clint offered with a weary smile. A long night. He moved into the elevator, but his escort remained behind.

The President nodded and reached out to put his hand against the electronic pad on the wall that recognized his handprint and allowed the elevator to move. He turned to the Navy Captain with the black box. Roy, I see your boys beat Rutgers this weekend. Think you’ll beat Army?

The Navy Captain smiled. Of course, sir. Beat Army.

The President nodded. Clint knew that Logan Anderson had not served in the military himself, but was enamored with the tactics and strategy of war. While his supporters labeled his Iraq war policy