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And anything is possible. Let’s hope this is all it is.
Jesus. I hope McFadden’s not even close to being right!
Naylor laid his hands on the laptop and typed:
COPIES FOR EVERYBODY. NOW.
Naylor became aware that everyone but McFadden— who was enthusiastically buttressing his “Crash It into the Ka’ba” theory—was looking at him.
“Another theory has come in,” he said. “The sergeant major is making everybody copies. While we’re waiting for that, would you go on, please, General McFadden?”
[FIVE]
Office of the National Security Advisor The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 2005 23 May 2005
“Natalie Cohen,” the national security advisor said into her telephone. She was a small, light-skinned woman who wore her hair in a pageboy.
“It’s me, Natalie,” her caller said, the thick Carolina accent unmistakable.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“I just finished reading the seven o’clock summary.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Natalie, as the last item, or the next-to-last item, there’s an airplane missing in Angola. What’s that all about?”
“We don’t
know much, Mr. President, but I checked with the Air Force and they don’t seem to think it poses a threat to the U.S., at least so far as making it a flying bomb is concerned. It’s too small and doesn’t have enough range to fly here. There was some concern that it might be used to crash into our embassy there, or in South Africa, but the time for that—if it was to be immediately done after it was taken—has passed. Right now, we just don’t know what happened to it.”
“Don’t you mean, Natalie, ‘they just don’t know’?”
“Sir?”
“Our enormous and enormously expensive intelligence community,” the president said. “We, you and me, Natalie, are supposed to get the intelligence. They are supposed to come up with it, and then give it to you and me. Right?”
“Yes, Mr. President, that’s the way it’s supposed to work.”
“And they haven’t been doing that very well, lately, have they?”
“Mr. President . . .”
“They haven’t and we both know it,” the president said.
She didn’t reply.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload on you,” the president said.
“I didn’t think you did, Mr. President. I understand your frustration. I’m often frustrated myself.”
“I wish I could think of some way to shake them up,” the president said. “Any ideas?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”
“Matt Hall and his wife are coming to supper. You interested? ”
“I’m at your call, Mr. President, but I really have made plans.”
