I never tire of the desert. Its mysteries and unspoiled beauty remains as a testament to ages past, its harsh exterior conceals a cool interior and like giant cacti hording water, preserves things of value deep within.
Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld steps off the jet without fanfare. He is officially on vacation on his ranch
in New Mexico, yet like all of us, since 9-11 there are no real vacations. I walk up to greet him back to Shamballa and extend my hand.

“69 years old and still no retirement.” Rumsfeld says with a smile.

“You know you forgot to invite me to your birthday party last month. My sensitive inner man was crying and my harsh external man was very angry.”

“Sorry. Joyce was very clear that it was to be family only - no colleagues.”

“Blame the wife again...ok I’ll buy it this time. But next year for the big 7-0 I‘ll be pulling a Charlie Brown on my mail box. Seriously, it’s good to see you again, Don. So do you bring good news or bad? How went the meeting at Crawford?”

We walk across the golden tarmac, covered with dust and sand, which is invisible from the air. The late afternoon sun is still intense and the temperature is still hovering at 108 degrees.

“Let’s get below first and out of this infernal sun.”

We descend, seemingly magically, deep underneath the desert sands and within a few moments Rumsfeld’s jet will experience a similar descent and remove its profile for overhead satellites, the next one which will be passing overhead in thirteen minutes, so as not to give image analysts of our enemies a free ride.

In this underground sanctuary the air is much cooler and the atmosphere less formal than any of the official Defense Department related facilities, such as the Pentagon. We enter my office and Rumsfeld is admiring the solid walls of books which flank my desk.

“I still owe you your book back, sorry about that.”

“Oh, keep it, Don. I am not going to run out any time soon.”

“Thanks. I will.” He faces the texts and peruses the many titles, many of which are hundreds of years old.

“This small library in the bowels of the desert is an inspiring sight. Every time I visit here, I feel as though I have descended into the great pyramid and found a library adjoining the unfinished chamber.”

“The books love the dry climate and are out of the sun. It seemed a natural spot for a library. I find the books help me to keep perspective on all that is going on these days.”

“Well, all that goes on is not good these days.” Rumsfeld replies.

“How so?”

“The meeting in Crawford was a bust. Unfortunately, George is vacillating between the hawks and the politic wonks who fear beginning our campaign to oust Saddam prior to election day will have devastating results. I tried my best to convey the urgency of the matter, but the politic wonks got folks like Schwartzkopf and Scowcroft to make public statements, sabotaging our best efforts.”

“Why? What do Scowcroft or Schwartzkopf get out of this?”

“Bottom line? The Saudis have been attempting to slow our operations. Their oil will rise on the short-term but drop severely once Saddam is replaced with a US propped government. The Rand boys did their homework with an impressive ten year outlook in financial losses sustained by Saudi Arabia as the result of Saddam‘s fall. The figure, needless to say, was substantial. Their political footing is also shakier than it has been in years and they are consolidating the fanatical elements to increase their power base.”

“Your statements distancing the Pentagon from the Rand report were taken well by the Saudis?”

“Well enough... so that they moved about 15 billion out of US banks, within two days.”

Hearty laughter reverberates throughout the room.

“So has he made up his mind on a date yet?”

“You use one of your fancy gadgets to read his mind and tell me. I’d like to know. Each of our plans we have presented, seem to hang suspended in midair. I am receiving no help whatsoever from the Joint Chiefs. The Joint Chiefs should all be demoted to Majors - Major pain in the butt, Major pain in the ass, Major aggravation and Major headache.”

More laughter fills the room, yet Rumsfeld’s is tinged with genuine exasperation.

“We have given them time to deploy launch platforms for chemical and biological weapons throughout Iraq. This mission should’ve gone ahead back in April. Each day brings more money and equipment in to Saddam, making our job just that much tougher. Are the Rand boys pulling Bush‘s ears against our plan?”

“The Rand boys are busy with plans on going after Saudi Arabia already - they are living in 2023 while the rest of us poor mortals are living in 2002.” says a frustrated Rumsfeld.

“Advanced projections are a waste of time. Strategic implementation of existing goals must always come first. SRI’s Human Augmentation Research Center invented the computer mouse back around ‘70 - yet only mass production of computer chips and Microsoft’s exploitation of SRI technology for their Windows brought widespread mouse usage 25 years later. Yes, Bill Gates owes his entire fortune to some free-love era computer geeks with Zapata moustaches and long sideburns who were two decades ahead of their time. The Rand boys can sit and crunch numbers all day for oil consumption and production in 2023 - but it is what you and Bush and SDAI does today and tomorrow which will decide if any of their number crunching is of value or not.”

“The politics were simpler in Ford’s day. Not much simpler, but there were only a few shades of gray and not the million shades of gray which loiter around DC today” Rumsfeld says with a rare hint of reminiscence, “we could always turn to IDA and their child JASON for their military sage advice.”

“Ah, that is really going back a ways. I haven’t heard anyone mention JASON in a long, long time. If any of their sage advice was used during Viet Nam - I am very glad JASON is ancient history. ”

Rumsfeld takes a seat in one of several comfortable old fashioned, overstuffed leather chairs which face the desk in the room.

“It’s tough work but rewarding, isn’t it?” I say with a smile.

“When does the rewarding part arrive?” Rumsfeld replies with a serious deadpan expression.

I open the long heavy wooden drawer, made in an era when desks lasted forever and no one complained about forest exploitation. I reach in and find what I am looking to find...

“Here have a lifesaver son.” I throw Rumsfeld a roll of Butterscotch lifesavers which I had picked up at the automat vending machine earlier in the day.

Shock turns into amusement.

“Thanks pop.” says Rumsfeld putting the roll into his suit breast pocket.

;-)

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