Power Curve (34 page)

“Because of Mr. Kennett?” Sarah asked.

“That and some other problems,” Turner said.

“How’s Sam doing?” Maura asked.

“There’s a problem with infection, and he’s still on the critical list,” Turner said. Brian joined them, and Maura turned the talk to school and homework. For a few moments, Turner was a mother, concerned with the mundane matters that made life predictable and safe.

But Maura was also a mother and sensed that something was tearing at her daughter. She waited until Brian and Sarah had left for school. “You can’t go on like this,” she said. “You need to get more rest.”

“I know,” Turner admitted. She sipped her coffee. “I hate some of the things I have to do.”

“Why don’t you get together with Noreen and Richard?” Maura asked. Turner was always more at ease and confident after talking to her kitchen cabinet.

“Not this time.” A long pause. “I wish Sam were here.”

“Is his advice that valuable?”

“Yes. No.” Turner felt she had to explain. “It’s just that, well, I had to make a hard decision this morning. And, and, Sam and I feel the same way about things. Besides, I trust him.”

“Who else do you trust?” Maura asked.

“Robert.”

A wave of self-satisfaction washed over Maura. Her daughter had not mentioned one Patrick Flannery Shaw. “But you don’t always follow the general’s advice.”

“He’s a man, Mother.”

Maura knew her daughter too well. She was bottled up and needed to talk before she could move forward. “Maddy, that doesn’t sound like you. What’s the matter?”

“If you look outside in the hall,” Turner said, “you’ll see a young navy lieutenant commander sitting there. He’s very good looking. A black leather briefcase is chained to his wrist. Do you know what’s in that bag, Mother?” Turner didn’t wait for an answer. “The launch codes that can unleash a nuclear Armageddon. I’m the only one who can do it. He’s there because I declared a defense condition, DEFCON TWO, that puts us on the road to total war.”

Maura tried hard not to gasp. She failed. “Are we that close to war?”

Turner shook her head. “I don’t think so. I had to do it because, because”—she searched for the right words—“it’s like a game where the rules were made years ago and it’s the only way we know how to play now. Mother, I entered politics to make a difference, to help people, not to destroy them.”

“Maddy, if what you say is true, and only you can use the codes, what’s the problem? Don’t use them.” She stared at her daughter. “It’s so simple. Just don’t use them.”

Okinawa, Japan

Normally, the command post hummed with activity as phones rang and people moved about. But now, the main floor was quiet and the silence was only punctuated by an
occasional phone call, always answered on the first ring. Then a low voice would mumble a few words before hanging up, restoring the silence. Martini was looking out the window of the Battle Cab and into the Control Cab as the two on-duty controllers grabbed pencils and bent over their console. He recognized the signs and waited. An emergency action message was coming in.

The loudspeaker crackled, and the senior controller’s voice echoed over the big room. “Please direct your attention to the Alert Status board.” Every head turned to the board on the left wall and Martini felt a surge of relief. The president had declared DEFCON TWO.

“At last,” Martini muttered. A sergeant entered the cab with new emergency action books labeled TOP SECRET and passed them out. Martini and the group commanders each signed for their book before breaking the seal and starting the actions that brought the base one step closer to war. It was almost midnight when they finished. “Tell Major Ryan,” Martini said, “that I want all the remaining dependents and civilians bedded down in the bunkers before sunrise.” He turned his position over to his vice commander. “I’m going to take a look around,” he told his staff, “and then sack out for a few hours. Do the same if you can.”

He strapped on his sidearm and flak vest, called for an armed escort, and walked out into the night. A gentle warm breeze washed over him and he took a deep breath. Two Security Police were waiting for him. “Come on,” he said. “Habu Hill.” They got into a Humvee and drove onto Perimeter Road.

Again, the night breeze wrapped around Martini when he got out of the Humvee on top of Habu Hill. But this time, it carried the strong scent of the sea. He walked to the guardrail and looked around. Except for the square of bright lights in the munitions storage area where the dependents were being sheltered, his base was cloaked in darkness. A dull red glowed on the far horizon to the northwest. It held him as it faded. Then another glow mushroomed up before it too faded. He strained to listen. Nothing.
Two hundred miles away
, he thought.

“Is that the Japs and Chinks going at it?” one of the Security Police asked.

“The Japanese and Chinese,” Martini corrected. “A lot of good men are dying out there.”

He prayed silently.
Please, God, help me do this one right
.

Martini walked into the command post at exactly 7
A.M.
, Wednesday morning, February 6. It was the 26th day of the crisis, and he was rested, showered, and shaved. His vice commander updated him on the situation, flipped open the new emergency action book, and pointed to the one item that was still open. “The C-141 is due in from Guam in two hours.”

Martini grunted and sat down. “You did good. Where the hell is Townly? I want an Intel update.”

“Sir,” came the answer, “Colonel Townly is at Habu Ops waiting for the SR-71 to land. It was scheduled to be over the battle area at first light and should be on the ground in ten minutes.”

The SR-71 could not provide him real-time Intelligence, but it was close and he needed to see the Habu’s film as it came out of the processor. “Whatever happened to Mohammed coming to the mountain?” Martini muttered, happy to have an excuse to see his base in daylight. He called for his escort and went outside in time to see the Habu land and turn off the runway.

Pete Townly and the hunch-shouldered captain were waiting for him when he entered the windowless building on the north side of the base. “The film should be coming out in a few minutes,” Townly told him. He paced the floor as he waited for the first frames of the 700-foot-long film to emerge from the processor. It seemed like an eternity. The two Intelligence officers ignored him as they bent over the film, trying to make sense out of the imagery. Finally, they turned to him. “Sir,” Townly said, “it’s going to take a hell of a lot of work before we get this all sorted out. But right now, it looks pretty much like a draw.”

“It seems like it’s lasting a long time,” Martini said.

“Based on this imagery,” the captain said, “the ships
are maneuvering over a huge chunk of ocean. It’s hit and run or shoot and scoot until one side starts to lose and withdraws.”

Townly kept studying the imagery as it fed out of the processor. “Sir, we’ve got to get this to the analysts, but my butt keeps twitching on this one.”

“Absolutely marvelous, Colonel,” Martini growled. “An Intelligence estimate synchronized to a twitching asshole.”

Suddenly, Townly became very agitated. “Sir, I need to get back to the Intel vault. I need to check some other sources.” His voice trailed off, and he looked pleadingly at the general.

“Go,” Martini barked. Townly grabbed his helmet and flak vest and ran from the room. Martini followed him out at a more relaxed pace. His escort was waiting with the message that the C-141 from Guam had landed safely and was offloading by the fuel cell building on the eastern side of the main ramp. “Let’s go,” he told his guards.

The Humvee drove up to the C-141 as the last two pallets of cargo rolled out the back of the C-141. Each pallet held two 600-gallon external fuel tanks. In combat, an F-15 carried one on its centerline and jettisoned it before engaging in combat. For all appearances, it was a normal supply operation, and the pallets were rolled onto a cargo loader and taken to the fuel cell building. Martini followed the cargo loader into the building and watched as the four disposable tanks were hung on the Vertical Tank Storage System, the VTSS. The VTSS consisted of three tracks that bore a striking resemblance to a storage rack in any dry cleaning shop. But these racks were on steroids and instead of holding clothing awaiting pickup, eighteen-foot-long drop tanks hung in orderly rows like aluminum gourds awaiting harvest.

Five blue buses packed with dependents drove up to the C-141. Ryan got off and marched over to Martini in time to see the building’s big doors clank shut.
Why all the interest in drop tanks?
he wondered. “Sir,” he said, catching the general’s attention, “I’ve got 250 volunteers who want to fly out. All we need is your OK.”

Martini pulled into himself and considered his options.
They had all been taken off the table, and he didn’t have a choice. “I can’t allow it without specific permission from the White House.”

“All of them have been briefed, sir. They know the risk and have signed consent forms.” Martini did not reply, but Ryan wouldn’t let it go. “What the hell am I supposed to tell them?” the doctor said, waving his arm at the buses.

Do you think I like it any better than you?
Martini raged to himself. But he was a subordinate officer. “Tell them exactly what I told you.” Then he relented. “Tell them I’m doing everything I can to get them out.” He spun around and climbed into the waiting Humvee. “Command post,” he barked.

Ryan glared at the back of the Humvee as it sped away. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted to no one. Two security police in full battle dress with M-16s approached and told him to move away from the building.

Martini was still in a foul mood when he stomped into the command post. Pete Townly was waiting and recognized the symptoms immediately. A strong sense of self-preservation warned him to disappear, but he felt suicidal. “Sir, I’ve got something you need to see.”

“Can it wait?” Martini growled.

“It’s perishable, sir.”

Martini stiffened. What did Townly have that made him so adamant? “This had better be good,” he muttered, following him into the Intel vault. He was not disappointed, and four minutes later, he charged out of the vault and into the command post. His vice commander saw him coming and vacated his seat in the Battle Cab. Martini dropped his helmet and flak vest and flopped into the chair. “Gentlemen, Intel claims we have a window of opportunity. The battle is hanging by a hair and can go either way. Townly thinks that all we need to do is close the runway on Kumejima. That should deprive the Chinese of air cover and allow Japanese fighters to get within range of the Chinese fleet and use their standoff missiles. I believe him. But we got to act now.”

He turned to his Operations Group commander. “I think our Strike Eagles can do it. Get the Forty-fourth working on a package while I see if I can get permission.”

Washington, D.C.

Bender picked at his salad and pushed it aside. It was late Tuesday evening, and he was sitting in his office trying to think like a national security advisor.
Think big picture
, he told himself. Although he had a moral and intellectual view of the world order, he accepted that his job was to help Maddy Turner realize hers. But how did she see the world? He chastised himself for not knowing and never asking. And where did he get off thinking of the president of the United States as Maddy?

Out of frustration, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the battle in the East China Sea.
It’s midnight here and two o’clock Wednesday afternoon there
, he calculated,
and they’re still going at it
. The Jedis in the Pentagon, that elite group of wizards who looked into the future of warfare, had predicted that naval warfare would be the nautical cousin of modern land war—short and very exciting. But they were wrong. This was turning into a prolonged slugging match where maneuver and speed over a large piece of ocean was life. His secure phone rang, bringing him back to the moment and his cage.

It was Hazelton calling from the Situation Room. “CINC PAC wants to attack the Chinese airfield on Kumejima. He says it is urgent and wants an immediate answer. Mr. Shaw is here and won’t disturb the president. He says she’s exhausted and has left specific instructions not to intervene unless we are under direct attack.”

Bender stood up and bit off the profanity that was forming on his lips. Instead, he slammed his left hand down on the desk, venting his frustration. The tips of his fingers caught the salad fork, and it flipped up, peppering his tie with salad dressing. “I’m on my way,” he said. He rushed out of his office, dabbing at his tie with a napkin.

Hazelton was waiting for him at the door of the Situation Room. She handed him the hard copy of CINC PAC’s message and waited while he read. “How do you read this?” Bender asked.

She walked him through the latest message traffic. “It all tracks. For the next ten to twelve hours, Kumejima is the key. If we can shut the airfield down, the Japanese
can get in range of the Chinese fleet to use their standoff missiles. If we can also neutralize some of those Silk Worm missile batteries on Kumejima, it should be decisive. But the president needs to decide now.”

“Why can’t it wait?” Shaw asked, his southern drawl thick and sweet. “They’ve been going at it for over twelve hours and don’t seem to be doing much more than scarin’ each other.”

“To be exact,” Bender said, “they’ve been fighting for sixteen hours. That’s a long time.” He glanced at the TV monitor. “And six ships sunk, four burning or dead in the water, five submarines down, over thirty aircraft destroyed, is far beyond ‘scarin’ each other.’”

“So why is it so damn important for us to get involved now?” Shaw demanded.

Bender chose to ignore him. “Contact the NMCC and see if General Overmeyer is available. We need to speak to him.” He turned to Shaw. “Wake the president. We’re going to need a decision.”

Shaw’s face was unreadable. “This is the first chance she’s had at some rest since Monday.” He cocked his head to one side and looked at Bender’s tie. “Have a nice dinner there?” Shaw smiled when he saw Bender’s blush.