“I recall him, Admiral. But dawn is almost twenty-four hours away. We can’t get our own people there in time?”
“It’s not dawn in Somalia, Mr. President. It’s almost sundown. The British team happens to be in the theater. They were on a training mission nearby.”
“We can’t use a missile?”
“There’s an agent from a friendly agency in his entourage.”
“So it’s up close and personal?”
“The only way, sir. So says our man on the spot.”
The President hesitated. As a politician, he knew that a favor creates a marker and markers can later be called in.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll make the call.”
The British Prime Minister was in his office in Downing Street. It was one o’clock. It was his habit to take a light salad lunch before going across Parliament Square to the House of Commons. After that, he would be out of contact. His private secretary took the call from the Downing Street switchboard, put his hand over the receiver and said, “It’s the U.S. President.”
Both men knew each other well and got on at a personal level, which is not vital but extremely useful. Both had stylish wives and young families. There was the usual exchange of greetings and inquiries after the near and dear. Unseen operators in London and Washington recorded every word.
“David, I have a favor to ask.”
“Ask away.”
The President took no more than five sentences. It was a strange request and took the Prime Minister by surprise. The call was on speakerphone; the cabinet secretary, the senior professional civil servant in the country, looked askance at his boss. Bureaucrats hate surprises. There were possible consequences to be thought through. Dropping Pathfinders into a foreign country could be regarded as an act of war. But who governed the Somali wilderness? No one worth the name. He wagged an admonitory finger.
“I’ll have to check with our people. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes. Scout’s honor.”
“This could be very dangerous, Prime Minister,” said the cabinet secretary. He did not mean dangerous for the men involved but for international repercussions.
“Get me, in order, the chief of the defence staff and the chief of Six.”
The professional soldier came on first.
“Yes, I know the problem and I know about the request,” he said. “Will Chamney told me an hour ago.”
He just assumed the Prime Minister would know who the director of Special Forces was.
“Well, can we do it?”
“Of course we can. Providing they get a damn accurate briefing before they go in. That’s down to the Cousins. But if they have a drone overhead, they should be able to see the target clear
as day.”
“Where are the Pathfinders now?”
“Over Yemen. Two hours short of the U.S. base at Djibouti. That’s where they’ll land and refuel. Then they’ll be fully briefed. If the young officer in charge is satisfied, he’ll tell Will at Albany Barracks and ask for a green light. That can only come from you, Prime Minister.”
“I can give you that in the next hour. That is, I can give you the political decision. The technical one is up to you professionals. I have two more calls, then I’ll be back in touch.”
The man who came on from the SIS, or MI6, or just 6, was not the Chief but Adrian Herbert.
“The Chief is out of the country, Prime Minister. But I have been handling this case with our friends for some months now. How can I help?”
“You know what the Americans are asking for? To borrow a unit of our Pathfinders?”
“Yes,” said Herbert, “I know.”
“How?”