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THIRTY-TWO

Besides the de facto members, the National Security Council meeting was attended by specialists from the Department of State and the CIA. Coulter wasn't there; Haugen had fired him two days earlier, along with Campbell at Defense. Actually, he'd requested and accepted their resignations. Haugen had appointed Assistant Secretary Harold Katsaros as acting secretary of state, bypassing Coulter's deputy. An assistant secretary recommended by Cromwell was acting secretary of defense.

And Stephen Flynn was there, sitting out of the way, observing.

Also there, as a consultant, was Rudolfo Valenzuela. He hadn't agreed yet to take over at State, but he hadn't said no either. Apparently he wanted to test the water; at least he'd agreed to sit in today. The principal subject of the day's meeting made it an ideal time to have him there, for he was exceptionally knowledgeable about both South Africa and Cuba, and could even be called a personal friend of Colonel Juan Augustin Lopez, Cuba's president.

The basic briefing on the first topic had been little more than an oral summary of the written report. Strong military forces of the Republiek van Suid-Afrika—the RSA—had rolled into Namibia. Namibia was ruled by the Marxist-oriented native SWAPO, and increasingly, SWAPO had been supporting sabotage and guerrilla activities in the RSA.

To the north of Namibia, in Angola, the Cubans had approximately 20,000 mercenaries, hired from the Cuban government by the Angolan government. This was the largest Cuban armed force outside Cuba since Lopez had evicted Moscow's advisors, reopened diplomatic relations with the United States, and signed a trade agreement.

And while the Cuban government was no longer influenced by the Kremlin, it still supported indigenous revolutions. Lopez was quite prepared to send his Angolan force south into Namibia to help SWAPO against the Afrikaners.

"Suppose they do?" asked the president. "What then?"

"It'll make a battlefield out of Namibia," said the State Department specialist. "There are a lot of Namibians who aren't political. They'll be caught in the middle. And the Cubans will take a drubbing, which Lopez won't like. He'll be looking to us to intervene."

"Is that right, Jumper? The South Africans would drub the Cubans?"

The general nodded. "Absolutely. First of all, the Cubans there are short on armor and air support since they crowded the Soviets and East Germans out. Most of the armor and planes had been Soviet, and the Sovs took almost all of it home with them. And the Afrikaners are not only well equipped for war there; they've been ranked fifth in the world in the quality of their army, between France and the United States. Although I could make a good case for ranking us ahead of them."

"Huh! Where does Cuba rank?"

"Eighteenth. Which is damn good for a third world country. To give you an idea, the Soviets are rated thirteenth. But eighteenth is quite a way below fifth. And in Angola, as I said, the Cubans are short on armor and air support."

"Then why would Lopez send his people south? I presume his contract with the Angolans only holds good for Angola."

"It's partly a matter of face: The Cubans have a Latin style of honor. And while they've pulled out of Moscow's Comintern, their government is still basically Communist; just independent-minded Communist."

Valenzuela spoke then. He was a fairly big man with a deep resonant voice, powerfully built but a bit overweight. His hands were even larger than Haugen's and just as beefy. "I'd be surprised," he said, "if Colonel Lopez wouldn't like a way out. Which might be something we can provide him with to our advantage."

"Tell us about that," said the president.

"Namibia used to be a German colony, until 1915 I believe it was. There's still a sizeable German population on the coast there. More important, after World War Two, West Germany traced down all they could find of the old native colonial army veterans and paid each of them a healthy bonus. In native terms, that was true wealth, and it made a strong impression on the Namibians. I was impressed at how highly they regarded the West Germans."

"What are you suggesting, Dr. Valenzuela?"

Valenzuela turned to Katsaros and grinned. "What do you think we could get out of the Germans, Hal?"

"I think," said Katsaros thoughtfully, "that we might talk the Germans into providing a squadron of A-111G ground-support fighters and possibly one of F-16 interceptors. To operate out of the airfield at Walvis Bay; the South African army will probably control Lüderitz before we could get the Germans there. And assuming we succeed, well, the Afrikaners have a lot of respect for the West Germans. I'd be very surprised if they'd risk fighting them." He turned to the president and smiled. "Ask General Cromwell how the West Germans rank in the quality of their armed forces, Mr. President."

One of Haugen's eyebrows raised. "How about you telling me?"

"They rank first, sir. Just ahead of Great Britain and Israel."

"Huh! West Germany and Great Britain first and second! Interesting. Supposing the Germans agree. Then what? I don't suppose they'd want to stay there indefinitely. How would we follow up on that?"

"Then we get President Lopez, or his foreign minister, to lean on SWAPO to stop agitating, while we lean on the RSA to move out of Namibia."

"And you think Lopez would be willing to do that? And SWAPO?"

"I wouldn't guarantee it," said Katsaros. "But I think there's a very good chance. Lopez must know the difficulties his troops would face there. And I'm sure SWAPO does too. Most of Namibia is desert grassland and open scrub—poor country for fighting a tough, mechanized army like the RSA's. Especially one with air support."

The president frowned thoughtfully. "It looks to me as if the best we could hope for was a return to the old status quo then, and I don't see how that could last long. My impression is that the Afrikaners get more intransigent year by year; that they don't even pretend anymore. And the blacks get less willing to accept the way things are."

No one said anything. Haugen turned to a CIA specialist. "Werner, your brief didn't say anything about the RSA having nuclear weapons, so I suppose they don't. Right?"

"That's right, Mr. President. We can feel pretty sure they don't, regardless of rumors to the contrary. First, they don't need nuclear weapons, and they've made a point of saying they don't want them. Frankly, they're afraid the rest of the world would gang up on them if they did. But the key reason for our assumption is that their information security isn't good. There are too many white South Africans who, more or less secretly, are anti-government. And not just whites of British or Australian or other non-Afrikaner backgrounds; they include more than a few Afrikaners too. So if they ever get nuclear weapons, I'd be damned surprised if someone didn't leak it to us, or to the British, in very short order."

Haugen nodded and looked at Katsaros. "If they're going to have a war down there within a few years anyway, mightn't it be better if they did it now and got it over with? In a few years the RSA might have those nuclear weapons."

"Mr. President," said Katsaros, "I'd prefer to prevent any war if we can, or any war I can envision off-hand. On the admittedly optimistic principle that if we delay hostilities, something may occur to cancel a war there indefinitely. The circumstances tending to bring about a war may change. We didn't invade Cuba, and after thirty-odd years, Cuba disconnected from the Kremlin. We didn't invade Nicaragua, and the Sandinistas, under Cuban pressure, also disconnected from Moscow. Then centrist Sandinistas took control, and suddenly that problem was gone."

Haugen didn't respond at once. After a few seconds he looked at Valenzuela. "How does that sound to you, Doctor?"

"Every case has to be considered on its own set of particulars. But certainly in this case I agree with Secretary Katsaros."

"All right," said the president, turning back to Katsaros. "Then if we go that route—if we ask Lopez to intervene with SWAPO—who in Namibia do we ask to allow the Germans to come in? Assuming the Germans are willing. How do you propose to actually do this?"

"First," Katsaros answered, "we ask the Germans if they're willing. They're the bigger question. Then, if the Germans are willing, we talk to President Lopez, because we need his agreement. His people would be the ones to talk to SWAPO. Then, if Lopez is willing, we lay it on the line to the RSA."

The president frowned and looked at Valenzuela. "Dr. Valenzuela, what is the state of mind in the Republic of South Africa just now? Among the whites?"

Valenzuela didn't hesitate. "Among the majority of the white population, the state of mind is ruthless determination not to yield an inch on apartheid. And during elections, they've removed from government anyone with any visible tendency to compromise. The liberals have been gone from government for decades, the moderates for years. So among those who govern, the state of mind is three parts ruthless determination and one part desperation. Desperation because in government they have a better view of the situation, and they're the ones who have to make things work, or try to.

"There is also a minority of whites with moderate inclinations, who don't say much except to each other. These are people who don't see their way free to leave, at least not yet. South Africa is their homeland. They have property, position, family ties, generations of family history there. And a high standard of living. What they don't have is influence or hope. I have little idea of how many they are, but they are there. I've talked to a few of them, and to some who've left. We cannot expect anything from them, however."

The president nodded. "Ruthlessness and desperation, you said. So what can we expect to accomplish by talking to the South African government? Except to buy time?" He didn't wait for an answer; the question was rhetorical. Instead he asked, "What is the state of mind of the black Africans there?"

"That's harder to say," Valenzuela answered. "Our communication is with the educated few. A Bishop Desmond Tutu, a Wilfred Mpumelele. But the really important blacks there are the illiterate tens of millions who have no one we can read as a barometer. So we judge as best we can from riots and demonstrations, and those are abnormal situations, not representative. Then there are tribal differences. And the men who clean streets no doubt feel differently about things than the farm hands, who look at things more or less differently than the mine laborers. While what we might call the reservation blacks will have their own attitudes.

"But I believe we can assume that there is increasing unity, a generally lower flash point, and a greater potential for widespread violence, really terrible violence, than there was a few years ago."

The president nodded and turned again to Katsaros. "And you still believe we should try to cool this situation, and hope something happens to prevent a future war there?"

Katsaros nodded without hesitation. "Yes sir, I do. And we should try to make things happen to prevent that possible future war."

Haugen nodded. "All right then, go for it," he said. "You have my approval and support. But off the record, I'm not optimistic. Not very hopeful and definitely not optimistic."

He fixed Katsaros with his eyes. "I'll want to see some sort of follow-up plan aimed at preventing a holocaust later. And if we're going to have a plan, we need some sort of long-range goal to start with. Work on it.

"Now. Are we done with this topic?" His gaze swept the table. "Apparently we are. Our next topic is the Soviet situation in Iraq-Iran." He turned his attention to the CIA specialist on that subject. "Mr. Batzer, how reliable is that estimate of Soviet casualties? Twenty-three thousand looks like a lot, considering their weapons superiority."

"It is a lot, Mr. President, but actually it's conservative. It's really 23,000 killed, missing, and disabled. It doesn't include wounded treated in the field or at field hospitals and returned to duty; just those evacuated from the war zone."

"Where did you get the data?"

"Mostly from our wide-gullet broadcast recorders. We get all kinds of radio traffic on them, even the breakdown reports from trucks on the road. With regard to casualties, we have order-of-magnitude checks based on an abundance of SR-71 and satellite photography."

"And what's the basis for the prediction that the Soviets won't be in Baghdad for at least a week?"

"That's a judgment call based on a complex of factors: Soviet logistics problems, like heavy early snows in the Zagros, and continued interruption of roads by raids and bridge destruction. And the number of Iraqi units—quite a few of them, actually—that have joined with Iranian units to fight the Soviets. Sort of a 'let's get together and bust the Russian infidels' attitude. The return of the refugee Iraqi fighter squadrons from Saudi Arabia, where they'd fled earlier when the Iranians broke through. And thirty or thirty-five thousand Kurdish irregulars, a lot of them down out of Turkey, taking advantage of an opportunity to fight Russians.

"When it comes to technology, organization, and discipline, the Soviets have every advantage, and they'll win just about every face-off. But the Iranians and their allies have the edge when it comes to morale, or maybe fervor's the word...."

By 1040 hours they'd completed the agenda. The president looked the group over. "Before we break up," he said, "let me state that I have a lot of respect for the people sitting here now. Dr. Valenzuela, I hope you decide to accept my offer of the secretariat. I'm sure that Mr. Katsaros would prove a very competent and ethical Secretary of State, but it seems to me that you are the man for the hour. And if you decline to serve as secretary, I hope you'll agree to be my special envoy to El Presidente Lopez on this South African matter."

***

After the NSC meeting, Flynn and the president swam slow laps for twenty minutes, showered, and had lunch in the Oval Office to the twelve o'clock news. The pundits of television were being critical today, not in any big resounding way but about some of the inevitable flubs and fumbles in the public works program.

The current biggie had the president shaking his head in awe: For some unstated and impenetrable reason, some nitwit district supervisor in the PWA had had a bridge built that went over nothing. The video camera showed it, a modest three-lane structure of steel and concrete that would have been about right for a fifty-foot-wide river. But there was no river. Not even a creek. Not even a dry wash. Just Texas panhandle ranchland confidently waiting for spring.

"The human mind," the president said in mock awe, "is a wondrous and mysterious thing." He made a mental note to have someone's ass run up the flagpole for that, unless they had a compelling explanation.

When they'd finished eating, Flynn looked at the president.

"Arne," he said, "I've got a question about this morning."

The president switched off the set. "Okay. Let's hear it."

"You approved the proposal to get the South Africans out of Namibia and postpone a nasty war there. But you seemed to think that postponement wouldn't have any lasting effect. And that the war, when it did come, might be worse for the postponement. What decided you to approve?"

"Politics, Steve. International image. Aided and abetted by the slight hope that postponement might turn into cancellation, but that wasn't the decisive factor. The bigger factors were, one, that getting the Afrikaners out of Namibia will make us look good. And two, it could inspire a little more hope for future peace. Also it's a precedent for squelching a military takeover of a neighbor; we're short on precedents like that these last few decades.

"And it'll make the Cubans feel important, which they are, and put them in a peace-keeping role."

The president looked for another factor but didn't find one. "That's about it."

Father Flynn nodded, then sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

"What're you thinking?" asked Haugen.

"When I asked the question, I really hadn't looked past the matter of a South African war; I was looking at it in isolation. But you're right."

He paused then. "And one other thing."

Haugen's brows raised.

"Just postponement is worthwhile, all by itself. I'm sure that God judges it so."

Haugen nodded.

Flynn wondered what the nod meant—whether the president agreed, or was acting agreeable, or simply acknowledging the statement. But he didn't ask. There were times when it was best to let things be.

***

Fairly often, Lois Haugen prepared supper herself, in the little kitchen Jacqueline Kennedy had had built off the family dining room. Often it was a very simple meal; this time it was a mixture of American and Scandinavian elements—Swedish sausages, plump and savory, buttered corn bread, and green salad, with the inevitable coffee, decaffeinated. When the sausages were gone—there'd been only two each—and they were sipping coffee, she asked about his day.

"Not bad," he said, "not bad at all. We think we may be able to avert a nasty war in Namibia, and Valenzuela agreed to take over as Secretary of State. I'll be surprised if he doesn't do a damn fine job, and it'll be good PR, too. The media will stop yapping about my firing Coulter and talk about Valenzuela, whom they're almost sure to approve of.

"And Milstead tells me the number of threats on my life has about doubled lately, so I must be doing something right." As he mentioned the threats, he watched his wife's eyes.

She never flinched; in fact, she smiled. "You must indeed," she said. Then: "I'm glad you're swimming instead of jogging these days."

He nodded. He'd thought about dropping exercise; physically he didn't have the recuperative power he'd had even a few months ago. "And one other thing," he said. "Jumper Cromwell got something very interesting in the mail yesterday, and gave it to me after the NSC meeting." He got to his feet. "I brought a photocopy for you to look at."

It was on the dining room mantel, above the flickering fireplace fire. Getting it, he gave it to Lois, who opened it—a sheaf of xeroxed sheets bound in a ring binder by Cromwell's Pentagon secretary. The title page read: Redeclaration of Purpose, the Archons, 1928, by John Simmons Massey. She looked questioningly up at her husband.

"It explains itself," he told her, and smiled slightly. "When you've read it, Jumper's report on the Holist Council will take on a whole new dimension."

She set it aside. "Dessert first, if you're willing to help me eat it. I broke down and asked Mr. Birmingham to send up a quart of French vanilla; it's in the bottom of the refrigerator, softening. We can't overeat too badly with just a quart."

He grinned at her. "Ice cream, the principal vice of senior citizens. Sounds good." He gestured as she moved to get up. "I'll fetch it. I'm a president, not a king."

In three minutes he was back with two soup bowls of ice cream and a squeeze bottle of fudge topping. "If we're going to load up on calories," he said, "we might as well do it right."

It didn't take them long to finish it, and when it was gone, he left for his office. Lois took the tray back into the kitchen. Then, with the ring binder, she went into the sitting room and began to read.

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