Erica Beatty, CIA, answers. “We don’t know, Mr. President. But Abu-Dheeq is al-Shabaab’s head of military operations, and al-Fadhli is the military commander of AQAP.” She raises her eyebrows.
The top generals for the Somali terrorists and Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, coming together for a meeting.
“Who else is there?”
“Looks like Abu-Dheeq came with just a small entourage,” she says. “But al-Fadhli brought his family. He always does.”
Right. He brings his family along to make himself a harder target. “How many?”
“Seven children,” she says. “Five boys, two girls. Ages two to sixteen. And his wife.”
“Tell me where they are, exactly. Not geographically but in terms of civilians.”
“They’re meeting in an elementary school,” she says. Then she quickly adds, “But there aren’t any kids there right now. Remember, they’re eight hours ahead of us. It’s nighttime.”
“You mean there aren’t any kids,” I say, “besides al-Fadhli’s five boys and two girls.”
“Of course, sir.”
That bastard, using his children as a shield, daring us to kill his entire family to get to him. What kind of coward does that?
“There’s no chance that al-Fadhli will be separated from his children?”
“He appears to be in a different part of the school, for what that’s worth,” says Sanchez. “The meeting is taking place in some interior office. The children are sleeping in a large space that is probably a gymnasium or assembly room.”
“But the missile will demolish the entire school,” I say.
“We have to assume it will, yes, sir.”
“General Burke?” I say into the speakerphone. “Any comment?”
Burke is a four-star general and head of US Central Command, on the phone from Qatar. “Mr. President, you don’t need me to tell you that these are two high-value targets. They are the best military minds in their respective organizations. Abu-Dheeq is al-Shabaab’s Douglas MacArthur. Al-Fadhli is not only the top military commander but also the top strategist for AQAP. This would be significant, sir. We may never have an opportunity like this again.”
Significant being a relative term. These men will be replaced. And depending how many innocents we kill, we may create more future terrorists in their wake than we kill right now. But this will be a setback to their organizations, no question. And we can’t let terrorists think that they’re safe as long as they hide behind their families, either.
“Mr. President,” says Erica Beatty, “we don’t know how long this meeting will last. It could be breaking up right now. There is obviously something important that these two military commanders want to say to each other, or share with each other, and they’re afraid to do it through intermediaries or electronically. But for all we know, in five minutes they’ll be gone.”
It’s now or never, in other words.
“Rod?” I say to the Joint Chiefs chairman, Admiral Sanchez.
“I recommend we strike,” he says.
“Dom?” I say to the defense secretary.
“I agree.”
“Brendan?”
“I agree.”
“Kathy?” I say to the vice president.
The vice president takes a quick moment, lets out air. Tucks a strand of her gray hair behind her ear. “He made the choice, not us, to use his family as a human shield,” she says. “I agree that we should strike.”
I look at the CIA director. “Erica, do you have the children’s names?”
She knows me well enough by now. She hands me a piece of paper with seven names written on it.
I read them, from the sixteen-year-old boy, Yasin, to the two-year-old girl, Salma.
“Salma,” I say aloud. “That means ‘peace,’ doesn’t it?”
She clears her throat. “I believe it does, sir.”
I picture a small child, nestled in her mother’s arms, sleeping quietly, knowing nothing of a world filled with hate. Maybe Salma will grow up to become the woman who changes it all. Maybe she’ll be the one to lead us away from our divisions and toward understanding. We have to believe that can happen someday, don’t we?
“We could wait for the meeting to break up,” I say. “When they go their separate ways, we follow Abu-Dheeq’s convoy and take it out. That’s one dead terrorist leader. It’s not two, but it’s better than zero.”
“And al-Fadhli?” asks Chairman Sanchez.
“We follow his convoy, too, and hope that he separates himself from his family. Then we strike.”
“He won’t, sir. Separate himself from his family, I mean. He’ll return to a populated area and disappear, like he always does. We’ll lose him.”
“Al-Fadhli rarely comes up for air,” says Erica Beatty. “That’s why this is such a tremendous opportunity.”
“Tremendous.” I flip a hand. “Yes. Killing seven children feels…tremendous.”
I stand up and move away from my chair, pace along the wall. My back turned to the team, I hear Kathy Brandt’s voice.
“Mr. President,” she says, “al-Fadhli is no dummy. If we take out Abu-Dheeq within a kilometer or two of where the meeting took place, he’ll know you tracked both of them to that elementary school. He’ll know why you spared him. He’ll spread the word to his brothers in arms. Keep your children close to you, and the Americans won’t strike.”
“They don’t worry about our children,” says Erica Beatty.
“So we’re no different?” I ask. “We’re no better? They don’t care about our children, so we don’t care about theirs?”
Kathy raises a hand. “No, sir, that’s not what I’m saying. They deliberately target civilians. We’re not doing it deliberately. We’re doing it as a last resort. We are conducting a precision military strike against a terrorist leader, not randomly choosing civilians and children as targets.”
That’s the argument, sure. But the terrorists we’re fighting don’t see the difference between a military strike conducted by the United States and what they do. They can’t drop missiles on us from drones. They can’t take on our army, our air force. What they do, blowing up or attacking civilian targets, is their version of a precision military strike.
Aren’t we different? Don’t we draw the line at conducting a military strike that we know will kill innocent children? Unintended consequences are one thing. This time we know the result before we start.
Rod Sanchez checks his watch. “This debate could become moot any minute. I doubt they will stay together for very long be—”
“Yes, that point was made already,” I say. “I heard it the first time.”
I lower my head and close my eyes, shutting out the rest of the room. I have a team of highly competent, well-trained professionals advising me. But I am making this decision alone. There is a reason that the founders of our country put a civilian in charge of the military. Because it is not only about military effectiveness. It’s also about policy, about values, about what we stand for as a nation.
How can I kill seven children?
You’re not. You’re killing two terrorists who are plotting their next slaughter of innocent civilians. Al-Fadhli’s killing his children by hiding behind them.
True, but that’s semantics. It’s my choice. They live or they die based on my choice. How do I meet my Maker one day and justify their deaths?
It’s not semantics. If you pass on this, you’re rewarding them for their cowardly tactics.
But that doesn’t matter. Seven innocent children are what matters. Is that what the United States stands for?
But why are those high-value terrorists meeting in person? That’s never happened before. They must be planning something big. Something that will result in the deaths of more than seven children. Stop this now, you might stop an attack. A net saving of lives.
I open my eyes. I take a deep breath, waiting for the drumming of my heart to slow. It doesn’t. It speeds up.
I know the answer. I always knew the answer. I haven’t been searching for the answer. I’ve been searching for a justification.
I take one more moment and whisper a prayer. I pray for those children. I pray that one day no president will have to make a decision like this.
“God help us,” I say. “You have my authorization to strike.”
Chapter
12